


with urgency but not with haste

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-04 01:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 57
Words: 76,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of Captain Swan drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lend me your hand (and we'll conquer them all)

“That’s so weird.”

“I know.”

“Like  _weird_  weird.”

“I  _know_.”

Both of them are too fascinated by the situation to notice they sound like a broken record – in any other moment, one would have made fun of the other long ago. They just keep staring at it, eyes wide and mouth open. Emma’s fingers run on his skin, making him shiver at the tickling touch, as she turns and return the hand in hers, like she can’t believe it to be true, like she needs to keep a physical contact between them to believe it. He flexes his fingers, as to prove everything works perfectly, bringing another “ _so_  weird” to her lips. She frowns, obviously still confused, as she pokes his palm, and it has at least the merit of making him chuckle a bit.

“And he asked you nothing in return? No ‘magic always comes with a price’ bullshit?”

“No. He just said it was for bringing his son back alive and then just…  _poofed_  it back.”

“ _So weird_.”

“Stop saying that.”

But she simply can’t because it’s a hand! Gold just magically attached a hand back to its arm, functioning and all. Emma has been near magic for quite some time by now, has magic  _in her_ , but that… that’s just too much.  That’s a thing of science fiction, not of fairytales, and her mind can’t wrap around the idea that the pirate has his hand back like nothing ever happened, like it wasn’t cut from the wrist centuries ago. She needs a break because this, whatever it is, is a thing of nightmare, not magic. (And then she remembers the most qualified doctor in town is Victor Frankenstein and she just wants to drink herself to oblivion.) She brushes her fingers against his knuckles, looking for the trick, but nothing comes. Not even when she traces the thin white scar around his wrist, and he chuckles lightly, obviously making fun of her.

“Imagine all the things you can do now that you have your hand back!” When he doesn’t answer, her eyes travel from his hand to his face, only to find him raising an eyebrow in a very provocative way, leaving no doubt to the thought he holds right now, to the innuendo ready to escape his lips. “Oh, shut up!”

He only laughs as a reply, taking back his hand to grab the glass next to him and take a long deliberate sip. She can’t stop staring at the hand, which makes him smirk. He does in on purpose then, playing with the saltshaker, taping his index against the bar counter in rhythm with the music, scratching his nose. Her eyes never leave him, and the insufferable smirk only grows bigger.

“Obsession much, Swan?”

She shakes her head and looks back at his face with a small smile of hers. “Looks like we’ll need to find you a new nickname then.”

“Or, you know, we could use my name, for a change.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Because I do have a name, you know.”

“I’m aware of that,  _Killian_.”

The smug smirk turns into something else, softer and more honest. He raises his hands – both his hands – to her face, fingers brushing her cheeks, and for a moment she believes him to be bold enough to lean and kiss her. But Killian would never do such a thing, no without her permission, that much she knows. Instead, he toys with her hair, wrapping a long strand around his finger before putting it behind her ear. He can’t keep his hand to himself now that he’s started, brushing his knuckles against he cheekbones, tapping her nose (she twitches it in a rabbit and he laughs), playing with her hair again. They barely register Ruby’s loud sigh, telling them  _to get a room, seriously, like right now_. 


	2. ahoy, mates

“Do you have a hat?” Killian’s eyes widen at Henry’s question, leaving him speechless for a few seconds. “You know. Big, black, fluffy red feather.”

“No?”

“A eye-patch maybe? A bandana? … Peg leg?”

Killian turns to Emma with a vague hand gesture to her son, because Henry may be eccentric most of the time but this, this is plain  _weird_. And he may not be from this realm but Killian is not an idiot so he knows when he’s made fun of. Henry’s serious face makes it all the more confusing. But of course, Emma only raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and he knows something is up, something is  _wrong_. She shrugs, innocence turned woman – or so she wants him to think, sneaky little thing that she is. He barely has time to frown, though, as she takes him by the arm and flashes him  _the smile_ , the one that makes him dizzy and weightless and damn that woman.

“Come on, let’s go.” Then, with an amused look to her son, “trust me, we won’t need the hat.”

He has no idea where they’re going, just that it involves her car and some bonding time together. Not that he minds, really, because he likes the lad and every hour spent with Emma is an hour he can only cherish, but his stomach is in knots. Something is up and he doesn’t know what and it’s driving him crazy. It takes them a good half an hour before Emma parks the Bug in front of a building he’s familiar with – the mall – because they’ve already been there a few weeks ago when she’d tried to convince him it was finally time to adopt the local fashion. He had outright refused, thank you very much. Still, she wouldn’t be mean enough to try again and drag him into every shop all afternoon long, especially not with the lad – especially not with that infuriating little smile of hers. He follows her out of the car and inside the building, ignoring Henry chuckling like a loon. Weird, the lad is just weird – obviously takes after his paternal side. (Not that there was anything wrong with Milah, mind you. He totally takes after the male genes.)

When Emma stops, it’s in front of a shop he’s not familiar with but Killian understands rather quickly that it’s not indeed a shop. It’s for food. And Emma finally gets rid of her falsely innocent look, her grin matching Henry and  _lunatics, I’m surrounded by lunatics_.

“Why won’t you and Henry buy us a dozen doughnuts, huh?”

Killian is just so bloody confused by now that he can only nod as he makes his way to the counter. Only when he’s facing the seller does he realise she didn’t give him any of those little pieces of paper they call money. He tries to turn and look at her but she’s nowhere to be seen and Henry pokes him in the ribs, forcing him to focus back on the seller.

“Hey, mate…”

He barely registers Henry’s gleeful “ahoy!” next to him because the teenager in front of him just freezes, eyes wide and mouth open. He examines Killian’s clothes and, damn, he knew it, he should have listened to Emma and buy those new clothes when he could. “Dude, are you for real?” Killian glances at Henry who, always helpful, just bursts into laughter. “Like, I’ve seen a lot of costumes today but yours just looks so real. The hook and all! Are you one of those stylist guys or something?”

He’s speaking English, Killian is quite sure of that, and yet not a single word coming out of his mouth makes sense. Nor does the fact that they end with a dozen free pastries, Henry looking proud as a peacock. Emma appears out of nowhere, equally smug, plastic bag in hand.

“I knew you’d succeed!” She high-fives Henry and  _please would someone tells him what is going on_. His sheer confusion may be readable on his face, and she may take pity in him for half a second here, because she offers him a peck on the lips and an explanation. Talk like a pirate day. Well, still doesn’t make any sense, reinforces his idea that people in this realm are just plain crazy, but it’s good to know.

On the way back to Storybrook, Henry starts living up to the day’s celebrations, punctuating every sentence with an “arhhh” and doing a very bad impersonation of his accent. Things go even craziest when they stop by the Jolly Roger to steal some of his clothes, too big for Henry, too bloody tempting on Emma’s body. Only then do they go back to the apartment to stuff themselves with doughnuts and watch the DVDs Emma bought – all about pirates, of course.

All in all, Killian has to admit the day isn’t that bad. They watch Peter Pan because Emma wants to make fun of his cartoon counterpart and he get his revenge by teaching Henry as many pirate insults as he remembers. Jack Sparrow just killed Barbossa when David comes back from work – he barely needs five seconds to understand what’s going on. “Ahoy, mates!” he says with a grin, stealing the half doughnut Killian is holding.

The pirate shoots him a deadly glare. “I bloody hate you right now.”


	3. lost girl

He doesn’t hear her coming, doesn’t hear the footsteps on the deck. He comes out of his cabin with the idea of checking on provisions, something he postponed after coming back from Neverland, and she’s just  _here_. In that damn red coat of hers, hair falling in curls around her face, hugging her chest tightly. Her eyes meet his, blue against green, bottom lip trembling even so lightly – he doesn’t miss it, though, neither does he the look of desperation in her eyes. The eyes of a lost girl.

“Emma?”

Her jaw tightens – trying to look tough, to look strong. His beautiful stubborn Emma, always fighting, never letting the mask drop. It doesn’t work with him – never has – and he comes near her careful, as not to frighten her like a doe you come across in the forest. She doesn’t move, not even when he brushes his hand against her arm, simply holding his gaze.

“Emma, love, what’s going on?”

“Mary Margaret…” He quickly glances at the town behind her shoulder, already fearing the worst – those royals and their habit of running into problems, seriously. Emma’s broken voice is enough for him to focus back on her face, though. “She’s – she’s pregnant.”

Oh…

 _Oh_.

“Come here.” He doesn’t wait for a reply before wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug, with a kiss on the top of her head. She doesn’t fight it nor doesn’t she react for a while until, slowly, delicately, she snuggles against him and hugs him back, arms between his coat and his body. She sighs in his neck, hot breath bringing shivers down his spine and having his heart drop in his stomach. Another hug, a few weeks before, comes back to his mind, so different yet so similar – affectionate and reassuring, comforting and  _I have your back, always_. She sniffs but he pretends not to notice because he knows her, knows she doesn’t want him to think she’s anything but strong even when seeking solace in his arms.

When she finally breaks the hug, it’s to look at him in the eyes, as if she can read his soul, as if he holds the answers to the universe. He can’t help it, he brushes his nose against hers – he’s never been one for displays of affection and neither is she, but it just feels right to do so right now. His heart swells a bit when she fights back a smile.

“Despite what you think, they’re not replacing you.”

She closes her eyes, braces herself against his words, but she needs to hear it. Needs to know that she is loved, that her parents care about her, that siblings are not the end of the world. Maybe he’s not one to talk, as he was the youngest, but he remembers jealousy and fighting for their mother’s affections, just as he remembers whispers and shared secrets.

“I know,” she replies, weakly. “I’m just… not good at sharing?”

“Really? I never noticed.” She doesn’t take offence in his words and low chuckle, especially not when he holds her against him again. Instead, she leans her forehead against his chest, shaking her head slightly and chuckling too. It isn’t the most cheerful sound there is, but it’s enough for now.

“It’s already hard enough with Henry and now…  _that_. It’s all too much. I don’t want to see them with a baby and…”

Her voice breaks into another sob, holding him tightly like – like he’s her  _anchor_ , preventing her from drifting. His heart breaks and grows bigger at the same time, breath catching in his chest. Somewhere along the way, she deemed him worthy of her trust – enough for him to be privy of something no one else is, enough for her to open her heart to him in ways she never did before.

“And witness what life you could have had with them if it wasn’t for the curse?”

She doesn’t move for a few seconds then nods against him. “And Henry… Henry is going to see it to and…”

“And think the same thing about you and him.”

Not so long ago, she would have resented him for finishing her sentences so easily, for reading her mind like an open book. Now, she just nods for the second time, remaining silent, accepting his understanding of her. He puts his hand and hook on her shoulders to put so distance between them, to look at her in the eyes.

“What is done is done, love. You cannot change the past, only accept it. What you have with your parents is… different, to say the least. But it’s good. It’s real. Same thing with the lad. You have  _something_ , something _good_ , cherish it.” She doesn’t reply, only stares at him, and he vaguely wonders if she’s broken beyond repairs or only lost in her thoughts – he hopes for the latter. A grin curls his lips then. “And who knows, maybe you’ll do the same thing to the lad in the near future.”

She frowns for a second or two before the meaning behind his words falls on her and her eyes widen, mouths opening in a silent ‘o’ and, of course, punching him in the shoulder. “Shut up!”

He finally lets go of her to holds his hands in front of him with an innocent pout on his lips. “I never said I’d volunteer. Unless…” He adds a wink, laughs loudly when she punches him again, with a laugh of her own this time.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And still, I’m yet to see you disagree.”

“I need a drink to go on with that conversation.”

She walks to his cabin, he follows her close. “Still not disagreeing.” Maybe she’ll punch his jaw and not his shoulder this time, but he doesn’t find it in him to care, not with that laugh of hers, with that sparkles with her eyes when she looks at him over her shoulder. She finds his bottle of rum almost too easily, takes a long gulp of it before looking back at him with her ‘let’s-have-a-serious-discussion’ pout. “Thank you.” Well, not that serious then.

He bows slightly. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“We both know it’s for more than that.”

“Aye.” A grin appears on his lips as he pointedly looks at the bed in the corner of the room, then back at her and – is she blushing? “If we do it right, the babe will be born a mere few weeks after your mother’s.”

She’s about to throw the bottle at his face, he’s sure of it, he’s a dead man and… “Okay.”

“Excuse me?”

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

His eyes widen, ready to pop out of their sockets when she goes for the button of her jeans – only for her to burst into laughter right away. He groans, rubbing his hand against his face. “You’ll be the death of me, lass.”

She takes another sip of rum, proudly raising her eyes in what looks like provocation to him. He can’t blame her, not really, not when he succeeded in lifting her spirits so quickly – the hugs, the words, his mere presence, he doesn’t know but it worked, and it’s all he cares about. The darkest part of him wants to believe she just needs someone, anyone, but he knows it to be false. He knows the power of his words on her, knows she wouldn’t be laughing that easily with anybody else – wouldn’t be that affected by anybody else. And gods does he love her, that beautiful stubborn woman who makes him needed just as much as he needs her, who takes and gives back in equal measures.

So maybe he invades her private place to snatch the bottle from her hand and drink. Maybe she licks her lips to have him choke on the rum. Maybe he brushes his fingers against her hips, she tugs on the bottom of his shirt, he puts his hand flat of her back to pull her to him. Maybe, maybe not.

All that matter is this moment, because it is  _theirs_.

Because it is hers, he is hers, and she doesn’t have to share with anyone.


	4. bouquet

“Hide me.”

She swoops on him like a bird of prey, grateful for the first time of the night that he chose to sit in the far corner of the room, away from the crowd and the light. She may stand a chance. Killian’s eyes grow wide at that surprising apparition, especially when she angles his body to hide her from the dance floor as best as she can – he doesn’t protest, of course, but questions are written all over his face.

“Whom are you hiding from, my love?”

She doesn’t respond at first, mostly because she guesses what his reaction would be if he knew she hides from Ruby – they’ve been getting along perfectly well since the day they officially met, out-sassing each other on a daily basis and joining forces to annoy her. She isn’t exactly sure he’d keep protecting her from his new best friend, the prick. So, instead, she forces him to move to his left, making sure she can’t be seen. He has only moved once this the beginning of the night, when she forced him to dance with him, so she’s positively sure people won’t know where to look for him. At least, she hopes so.

“All right.  _What_  are you hiding from, then?”

“The bouquet toss,” she replies, gritting her teeth. He, of course, has no idea what’s she talking about. “The bride tosses to bouquet to a crowd of single women and whoever catches it is said to be the next to get married. Hence, the hiding.”

He is at loss for a moment, mouth open in wonder, and she can almost hear what he told her earlier that day,  _in the Enchanted Forest, we drink and we laugh and we dance. No need for all that useless extravagance_. She could only agree with him because, damn, some of those traditions are plain stupid and useless and she could do without a bouquet toss, thank you very much.

“Don’t you –”

He doesn’t have time to finish the question – and she perfectly  _knows_  what he wanted to ask – because a yelled “Emma!” startles them both. She grabs Killian’s arm at the same moment Ruby grabs hers. “Come on, Emma! You  _have_  to do it!”

“Nope, not single, no need.”

She must be grasping his arm so tight it hurts by know; she doesn’t find it in herself to care.

“Couple doesn’t mean married, you still count.” She has somewhat underestimated Ruby’s strength – damn the wolf – because she still manages to drag her away, feet sliding on the floor. The brunette even turns her head to stare at Killian. “And you, mister, need to join the bachelors.”

He does as she says without a question, the traitor.

Emma suddenly finds herself stuck between Ruby and Ariel – who’s already found her true love, let her catch the bouquet for heaven’s sake – with a dozen other women she doesn’t know. Ella and Snow watch from afar, not even hiding their amused grins. Traitors too.

Of course, because fate is not on her side today, Belle all but throws the bouquet at her face, and she has no other choice than to grab it before it hits her rather painfully. She freezes, glaring at the damn object like it’s the source of all her problems – right now, it really is – and ignoring the other girls cheering around her.

When she looks up, it’s to meet Killian’s eyes, unable to look away. She reads it all on his face, the surprise and the amusement and, as much as he tries to hide it, the blatant hope. She wants to sigh but can’t, wants to run away but can’t. They miss how Rumplestitlskin takes Belle’s garter off with his teeth. (Urg, gross.) Of course, the thing lands on Killian’s shoulder with him barely noticing – fate and everything. He just keeps staring at her, ignoring the cheers from his own crowd of single males, then quickly glances at Snow.

(Somewhere along the line, during those thirty seconds of nothingness, she guesses what Killian is about to do. She also realises that she doesn’t care, that she already knows the answer to the question he hasn’t asked yet.)

In a matter of seconds he closes the distance between them, and she can only scream in surprise when he tosses her over his shoulder, hooked arm against her tights to keep her in place. Her yells turn into laughs at the ridicule of the situation, begging him to let her go because, gosh, they’re making a scene in front of the whole town and he’s going to regret this.

(She misses Snow taking her ring off to give it to him, misses David’s nod of approval, misses the smiles and chuckles of everyone.)

 “If you’ll excuse us,” Killian says with the smuggest voice she’s ever heard coming from him, “we have better things to do than a dance.”

He bows, the idiot actually bows with her on his shoulder, and leaves the room which, of course, finally allows her to face the others. She tries to beg David with a pout and imploring eyes, but laughs too much to keep a straight face more than two seconds.

“Father! A dangerous vile pirate is abducting me! Do something, father!”

“We’ll start a search party if you’re not back in an hour,” is all he replies, and Killian bursts into laughter. She kicks him in the chest with her knee, for good measure.

(When they’re out and alone, she doesn’t wait for him to ask. She says yes right away.)   


	5. come back to me

The sails flap in the morning wind, white again the blue of the sky, shining with the rising sun. She’s a thing of beauty, the Jolly Roger. Killian always says that ships have personalities, but sometimes Emma really wants to believe this one is alive – she looks lively, almost excited, when she’s getting ready to sail. And so does her captain. He jumps from deck to deck, barking his orders with a grin on his lips, watching as the Lost Boys – his new crew – hurry to obey. They all look so happy, this band of misfits getting ready for the adventure that awaits them.

“Nibs, secure the ropes. Tootles, go check our provisions, you lots ate all the chocolate last time. And could someone  _please_  welcome the lady on board.”

“Will you ever learn their real names?” she yells back at him while the one they call Curly, the adorable little one who made her promise she would bring them home with her, runs toward her with a big grin. He takes her hand to help her on board, and Emma can only roll her eyes.

(And, yes, it  _is_  adorable, she’ll admit that.)

He leads her to the helm, even if she knows the ship like the back of her hand, before going back to his work with one more smile to her. Playing along, Killian bows to her, one hand behind his back. When he looks up at her, though, it’s with a wicked grin and sparkles in his eyes – you can take the pirate out of the sea but you can never take the sea out of the pirate.

“Your Highness.”

“ _Their names_ , Killian.”

“Aye. But it’s easier that way. They don’t mind, don’t worry.”

Indeed she’s never seen happier orphans than those ones since Killian asked them to help on the Jolly Roger, a couple of months earlier – it’s not the best place for kids, part of her wants to argue, but it’s better than letting them wander around town aimlessly. They like it, being pirates and going on adventures. And, even if he hides it well, so does Killian, big softie that he is under all that leather.

He checks his compass, glances at the boys on the lower deck to make sure everyone is still alive and well – it is only a round trip to the Enchanted Forest for supplies, nothing they haven’t done before, but one is never too careful – before looking back at Emma with an eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Are you only here to say goodbye or…?”

“No, actually. I wondered if you could deliver a message for me.”

Both his eyebrows shoot up then, surprise painted all over his face, and she wonders for a second if he’s going to reply that he’s not her carrier pigeon, thank you very much. Instead, he seems to be thinking this through – probably wondering whom she wants to contact in the other realm – and thus doesn’t notice the smile appearing on her lips.

“Aye, sure. What’s the message?”

“If, out of hazard, you meet a dashing young naval officer, one with a stupid accent and eyes blue like the sea…” His breath catches in his throat, especially since she takes a step forward, finger brushing his chest. “Tell him…” Even closer, noses touching, breathing each other’s air. “Tell him the princess made her choice and waits for him in another realm.”

She can feel his heart beating faster against her fingers, his Adam’s apple going up and down as he chokes on some words, and a victorious grin curls her lips when he can’t even bring himself to kiss her – not in front of the crew, that’s bad form, she almost hears him think. Instead, with shaky fingers, he tucks her hair behind her ear.

“I’m fairly sure this naval officer of hers will do his best to come back as quickly as possible then. Wouldn’t want her to miss him too much.”

“Yeah, he does that.” She steps back with her smuggest grin, fingers trailing on his chest for a little while longer, and he can only pout in response.

Turning her back to him, she’s almost ready to climb down the stairs when he finally calls her name. She doesn’t have time to react before his hook finds a loop of her jeans and, in one motion, she crashes against his chest, his lips already on hers. She forgets about the boys, about everything around them as she moans against his mouth, as he wraps his arms around her. Where they were pouring all their desire in the first kiss, they take their time now, slow and passionate, leaving her dizzy and breathless. Killian chuckles against her lips when it becomes rather obvious that some of the boys are catcalling them – and is one of them fake-gagging? urg,  _children_  – but he lightly kisses her again, and again, lips like butterflies on hers.

“I’ll miss you too, lass.”

“Come back to me.”

If he reads under the lines, if he understands that her words are more than those of a lover, he’s kind enough not to point it out – he knows her, knows her fear of rejection, of loneliness, would never hurt her that way – hurt her at all.

“That I will, my love. That I will…”


	6. Ruby

Ruby prides herself in knowing everything there is to know about Storybrook, every gossip and whisper, every rumor and secret - it comes with working at the most popular place in town. She witnessed Snow White and Prince Charming falling in love all over again, saw Emma becoming a mother in front of a huge book and a hot cocoa, heard every rumor about the “handsome one with the bike”. (She saw Snow White flirting with Frankenstein and, as much as she’d like to forget, the memories are burnt in her brain.)

So, really, it doesn’t come as a surprise that Ruby is the first in line to notice what is happening between the Savior and her Pirate Captain.

.

He’s been staying at the inn for a week now, renting the biggest room, using almost all the hot water on a daily basis and paying in gold – coins so old even Granny thought them fake at first, but real enough to make her forget about the cold water. He even offered Ruby a necklace, heavy crimson gem sparkling in the light, and she would have thought he was actually flirting with her if it wasn’t for the lovesick puppy eyes he had every time Emma entered the dinner. He tries to make it subtle at first – _try_  is the key word – but you can’t fool Ruby that easily.

Every morning, without failing, Emma comes to have her usual breakfast with Henry, then the two of them go for the bus stop around the corner. When she comes back, it’s to sit next to Hook by the counter, ordering her second hot cocoa of the morning, and Ruby hands it to her with a knowing smile.

.

Killian Jones, she soon discovers, is a man of habits. He wakes up every day at seven, takes his tea with one sugar and milk – coffee or hot chocolate only once a week, no matter how many times Ruby tells him it’s not a rare commodity in this realm and he can indeed afford it, and more than once a day if he wishes –, eats nothing but pancakes and, obvious, sits on the same stool every time. It becomes  _his_  seat after less than a week.

Killian Jones is a man of habits, and he waits for Emma Swan every morning, only leaving the dinner after she does – to spend the day on his ship, most likely – and coming back by the time Henry is out of school. He goes back to his room when she goes back home and, hair still wet from his shower, order food – a different dish every day, but the same every week.

Ruby finds that psychotic at best, and stalking at worst, but she once saw how he perfectly aligned the cutlery on the table, and she just guesses he can’t really help himself. She understands, in a way, the need for order around you when your life is a mess you can’t put together.

And, anyway, she finds it cute, how his schedule was molded around Emma’s to spend as much time with her as possible. Not many men would do that.

But it’s Emma who impresses Ruby the most. Wild independent Emma Swan who doesn’t take shit from anyone, who always tried her hardest not to show her affections for both Graham and August, whose walls are stronger than those of Snow’s castle… She just accepts him, never questioning his presence by her side, never pushing him away.

(Ruby wonders what she missed, what happened in the Enchanted Forest, in Neverland, because  _something_ happened and it definitely wasn’t in Storybrook or she’d know about it. It’s frustrating at best. Not knowing.)

Hook is subtle in his public display of affection at first, but Ruby doesn’t miss his foot brushing against Emma’s or the way his fingers always happen to be next to hers on the counter. Sometimes, especially when the dinner is crowded, she pulls away, pretending to shift in her seat or to suddenly be thirsty; most of the time, Ruby isn’t even sure she notices, reading her files or her newspaper or talking with him, all too naturally.

.

One day, finally breaking the habit, he leaves the dinner to meet with David. Not, of course, without leaning toward Emma to kiss her on the forehead, hand on her neck. It looks so natural that Emma doesn’t even move at first, doesn’t even react, just following him with her eyes as he goes out. And when she looks back in front of her, it’s so find Ruby leaning on the counter with her wolfish grin and her best ‘we need to talk, sister’ look.

“So, you and Hook, huh?”

Emma’s eyes widen and  _no, girl, do not play dumb, not with me_. “Me and Hook what?”

“Come on, Emma! I want details! When did it start? Is he good in bed? Because one would think that without a hand, he’s better with other…”

“Wow, wow, Ruby, stop! Killian and I aren’t a – an  _item_.”

She spits the word like it’s a slur but she’s not fooling Ruby of all people. “Killian, huh?”

She can only grin at Emma’s cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink as she mumbles some nonsensical excuse before going back to her work with a pout. Ruby doesn’t bring back the subject.

She doesn’t need to.

.

It becomes more and more obvious along the line, much to Ruby’s delight. He puts his arm on the back of Emma’s chair from time to time, absent-mindedly drawing circles on her shoulder with one finger. He tucks locks of hair behind her ear when she reads, earning a warm smile in thanks. Sometimes, when she’s still at the station, Henry meets him and they spend hours talking about the Enchanted Forest – the boy is always so eager to talk about everybody’s backstory, and Hook fills in the black about this castle and that city, that creature. Ruby even sees them in the street once, sword-fighting like Henry used to do with his grandpa, laughing and yelling for hours.

Emma is wary at first – old habits die hard, Ruby thinks – but she gets used to it, eventually. Leaning against Hook’s shoulder, stealing his fries with a wicked grin, always seeking his advice when she needs someone’s opinion on something. She even folded her ankles on Hook’s lap when she read some files and, once, Ruby catches her playing with the hair on the nape of his neck, the pirate almost purring like a kitten.

Not an item, her ass.

. 

Ruby wakes up one morning to ten inches of snow, covering every bench and every car, leaving the streets empty of its inhabitants, turning Storybrook into a winter wonderland – it reminds her of home, of riding in large empty fields and drinking Granny’s mushroom soup by the fire. She sighs happily at first, smile on her lips, until she realizes she’ll have to clear the snow from the terrace.

It’s a very quiet day at the dinner, only a few people brave enough to go outside while the snow is still falling – the children don’t seem to have this problem, running around the streets like lunatics and basically having the time of their life.

It’s well in the afternoon when Killian and Emma stumble into the dinner, snow in their hair and on their clothes, laughing and grinning like the fools they are, his arm wrapped around her waist.

“Hot chocolates and waffles, please, my lady wolf!” he asks her with that big goofy grin of his and Ruby can only smile back, even with an eye roll at the pet name.

They wait until she’s in the kitchen, but she sees them through the little window between the rooms – how Emma tiptoes to kiss him, chuckling under her breath when he playfully brushes his nose against her cheek several times. It would almost make Ruby gag at how horribly sweet they are – and no, she’s not jealous, whatever – but mostly she wonders if they  _know_ , if they’re aware of what they have.

True love in the land without magic.

.

When they (finally) make it official, almost a year after Neverland, Ruby can only chuckle and “I knew it from day one”.


	7. queen of the lost boys i

“Enough beds in that ship of yours for all of them?”

He tries, most likely fails, not to be bothered by the question, not to mind having all those little demons on his ship. They tried to kill him, and more than once, after all – but in all fairness he tried (and succeeded) to kill a few of them too. It’s not his fault if he’s wary of them, old habits dying hard. They’re not the demons, not really, but still… He’ll need more time to get used to having the Lost Boys on his side.

So he quickly looks around, mentally counting them – bloody hell, how many of them did Pan steal through the years?

“Aye, I think so. The wee ones will probably have to share a bunk, though.”

The answer seems to satisfy Emma, as she gives him her ‘thank you’ smile – the one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes but isn’t entirely fake either – before calling after the Lost Boys and leading them to the crew’s cabin. Felix doesn’t budge and keeps brooding on his spot, by the other lads follow her easily, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Killian has to focus on the wheel to stifle a smile at the way she lightly pushes them on the shoulder to walk, ruffling their hair a bit and smiling at them – Emma Swan, queen of the orphans.

He doesn’t realise time has past until Charming and Snow go to bed too, and can only frown as he scans the deck – no trace of her. The Lost Boys wouldn’t harm her, not on this ship, not when everyone can see, but Killian still worries about her, about what they’re capable of doing. So he calls after Baelfire – no,  _Neal_  – and asks him to steer the wheel for a bit and strides to the cabins as soon as the other man has his hands on the helm. He opens the door vigorously and –

– stops in his tracks immediately.

She puts her finger to her lips with a silent ‘shush’, raising her eyebrows as to challenge him to make a sound. But it’s not the most surprising, no. Not when she’s sitting on one of the bunk bed, her back against the wall and five Lost Boys curled up around her like kittens with their mama cat – the dozen or so others sleeping here and there in the room. The wee one, the one that almost begged her to take them with her, has his head in her lap, sleeping while she plays with his hair. The twins by her sides, each of them with his head leaning against her shoulder, a blond one with his back against her tight and one in his teenage years sitting on the floor against her legs. All asleep, all smiling despite the look of exhaustion on their little faces.

Killian can only bite his bottom lip not to grin at the scene in front of him as he leans against the doorframe, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow as a silent quip. She rolls her eyes. “They wanted a story…” she whispers, as if it explains everything. It does. She let Regina take care of Henry, but after days of looking for her son, the maternal instinct has to be strong – has to come out in one way or another. And it came out with them, apparently.

“Emma Swan, mother of the Lost Boys,” he whispers back, teasing.

She offers him a pout and a frown, as if daring him to go on with that thought – he’s clever enough not to. Still, they make a striking image, and an adorable one at that. Killian would rather not focus on what it does to him because, really, now is not the time to let his mind wander on what a perfect mother she is and – too late. Especially when she points at the wee one on her lap and mouths “This one is so cute.”

“It’s not a puppy, you can’t just decide to keep him!”

The sideway glance she gives him then is just priceless. They haven’t decided what they’re going to do of them once they arrive in Storybrook, because the boys most likely no longer have families of their own and they can’t just let them alone in town and hope for the best… But taking care of them all at the same time? This is madness.

So he just rolls his eyes at her. “Tell me if you need help moving them around when you’re done, all right?” She nods in reply, as if afraid talking too much will wake them up, and Killian stands straighter, ready to go back to the helm. “Goodnight, lost girl.” It doesn’t sound bad in his mouth, more pet name than insult, loving and gentle – that’s why she smiles in response, her eyes sparkling in the darkness of the room.

“Goodnight, lost boy.”

And oh, how right she is.


	8. queen of the lost boys ii

Going back to Storybrook is… overwhelming, to say the least. Of course, Emma had expected to see Belle impatiently waiting for Gold’s return, but almost all the town is here, cheering them and being happy to see them again. It’s all too much, tears pricking in her eyes. Hook tries to be his unfazed self, but she notices how he blushes when people cheer for him in thanks, how he hides his emotions by taking care of the Lost Boys – the pirate turned hero who refuse to let himself enjoy the moment.

Emma, on the other hand, has no other choice, so she accepts everybody’s hugs without complaining – not even when seven dwarves decide a group hug is a good idea, with Snow laughing next to them. But soon enough, Hook is back at her side, his hand brushing against her elbow as he nods toward Granny and she replies by a nod of her own in silent agreement before calling after the old lady.

“What do you feel about some pro bono work for a day or two?” she asks with a pointed look toward the group of Lost Boys.

Grammy sighs and rolls her eyes, but Emma doesn’t buy it. The inn has been empty for weeks and Ruby no longer needs being taken care of by now; it’s written all over Granny’s face that she will enjoy it.

 

.

“I want to buy the biggest house you have.”

“Ms Swan, always to the point.” Gold doesn’t even raise his head from whatever he’s reading, not even when she strides to his counter and leans against it, staring at him. After a long minute of purposefully ignoring her, he sighs and closes his accounts book to smile at her – she doesn’t miss the sly edge to it. “Finally leaving the nest, I gather?”

“No. It’s for the orphans.”

“Oh, starting a family of your own.”

She does her best not to sigh at his antics, knowing perfectly well his opinion on her relationship with his son – or, rather, lack of one. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment any further as he takes another book from behind his counter and flips the pages – pictures after pictures of houses, apartments, and Emma remembers her first day in town, when Granny had told her he owns Storybrook. He stops on one page in particular and turns the book around for her to check.

“The only biggest than this one is the nunnery, dearie. Six rooms, three bathrooms, far enough from the centre so that your, hm,  _boys_  won’t bother anyone. And I hope you can afford it, because I ran out of good deed when I saved your father.”

She rolls her eyes at that, even when taking a purse full of gold coins out of her bag. It falls on the counter in a tinkling sound – courtesy of the captain, of course.

“Hope you have nothing against the Enchanted Forest’s currency.”

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Ms Swan.”

.

She starts smiling the moment they set foot in the house and only stops once she falls asleep that evening, because the happiness written on the boys’ faces is contagious. She doesn’t even remember what it feels like, to finally have a house of your own after being an orphan for so long, doesn’t even remember being happy about having a new family to stay with – so she understands them, and their hopes and dreams finally coming back as they run from one room to another. For the first time since Pan stole them, they have a chance to belong.

Everybody comes and gives a hand, David assembling beds in the bedrooms, Snow and Granny cleaning and Killian using even more gold to do the groceries with Ruby. By the end of the day, it starts to look like an actual home, and the hardest part for the boys is deciding who is going to share a room with whom. (Felix broods all day long because, well, he’s Felix.) They make pasta for dinner and she has to read them all a story before going to bed – even the oldest ones – because they obvious cling to her like little ducklings to their mother.

She comes back the next morning expecting to find a mess, but it’s quite the contrary. They all had breakfast and even did the dishes, now ready to start painting the walls. All ready to make it  _their_  place. So she lets them do and opens her computer, logs into the police servers and starts checking the missing person files. Which will most likely take hours, days even, as they barely even remember their names, let alone their surnames and date of birth. Some of them should probably even be dead of old age by now, she gathers, which is all kinds of problematic in itself.

.

 

Emma only takes a break in her research when it’s time for Henry to finish school and she spends the rest of the afternoon at Granny’s with him. If he’s jealous of her taking care of other kids, he doesn’t show it, and she’s relieved for that – the last thing she wants is for him to believe she’s replacing him, because she knows the feeling all to well and it’s not something her son will experiment, thank you very much.

She leaves him at Regina’s for the night before going back to the orphans, only to find Killian tied up to a chair in the middle of the living room, ten of the boys around him. It takes a few seconds for Emma to realise what is going on, and she bursts into laughter.

“But look!” he almost yells, “Here’s the Pirate Queen and she’s going to save me.  _Ah-ah_!”

One of them, Tootles maybe, doesn’t miss a beat: “No, she’s the Queen of the Lost Boys and she’ll be the one to decide of your fate, pirate!”

They all turn to look at her expectantly. She rolls her eyes with a lazy flick of the wrist. “Let him go.  _For now_. If he misbehaves again, we’ll have him for lunch.”

Cut to ten kids cheering her, even when freeing the pirate, who bows to her with all the sarcasm he can muster. But he doesn’t hide his smile or the sparkle in his eyes, and maybe he’s the king of the orphans after all.

.

She leans against the doorframe, watching as they’re all getting ready for the night, when she feels Killian stepping behind her, warmth irradiating from his body. She looks at him above her shoulder and smiles at him, not minding when his hand finds her hip.

“A year ago I didn’t even want to be a mother. And here I am, with twenty kids to take care of.”

“Destiny is ironic that way, love.” She goes for a snort but the noise dies in her throat when he lightly kisses her shoulder. “Not to mention you’re good at this.”

“Not so bad yourself, Jones.”

She can almost feel his smile against her skin as he wraps both his arms around her waist, pulling her into his chest. She’s not one to complain. “Have you found any of their families yet?”

“No. I’m afraid of what would happen then. ‘Sorry, Peter Pan took your kid all those years ago but, hey! Here he is, not having aged a bit!’ Way to create problems we don’t need.”

It’s not the only reason, but she’d rather stick to this one. Killian can read her like an open book, after all, so he probably already knows what is left unsaid anyway – and if he does, he’s enough of a gentleman not to speak about it. Instead he kisses her again, the neck this time, in an all-too-casual manner, like it’s normal, like they’re used to cuddling while their orphans get ready for bed.

(Part of her wonders when exactly they became all lovey-dovey with each other. Another part of her really doesn’t care, it was just meant to happen anyway.)

Curly comes and stands in front of them, hugging a book to his chest with his most adorable pout – the little brat knows what it does to her – and Killian finally lets go of her, lightly pushing her forward. “The orphans call after you, Lost Girl.”

.

Somewhat, they both fall asleep on the couch after hours of whispering to each other when the boys are all in bed. She wakes up in the middle of the night, and it takes her a few moments to understand why she’s not in her bed and why there’s a pirate pressed against her back, holding her like he’s afraid she’ll leave him. She cuddles a little more against him and goes back to sleep.

It’s the early morning when she wakes up again, the sun starting to shine, Killian still behind her and one of the boys curled up against her chest – how the three of them manage to stay in the couch without falling over is a mystery to her.

She knows they can’t keep going on that way, that she’s  _definitely not their mother_ and can’t afford to think about herself that way. Knows she’ll have to talk with Killian eventually, to deal with what they are, together and to each other. But her mind is still clouded by sleep, she’s in a handsome man’s arm with an adorable kid against her and it’s all so warm and lovely. So, for a few minutes, Emma pretends it’s her life.

_Mother of the Lost Boys._


	9. scars

“Hey kid, have you seen my…” Emma raises her head, only to find an empty room, Henry already gone for school, and allows herself to sigh deeply. One hand to her ear, as if this simple gesture could suddenly make the earring appear – she had magic in her, after all, everything was possible – she looks on the kitchen counter and in the drawers after the missing piece of jewellery. No such luck. Neither is it on the table, or even in her room – she has checked already. “Where are you…?” And now she’s talking to missing objects, bloody great.

With a last glance at the clock – great, she’s going to be late on top of that – she makes her way to the bathroom, opening the door, and…

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry I –  _oh my god_.” She freezes in her tracks, one hand on the handle and mouth opened in surprise. Captain Hook in her bathroom, his back to her, with only a towel around his hip, does that to a person.

“Like what you see, darling?” He looks above his shoulder but his smirk falters at the look of sheer surprise on her face. “Are you all right?”

“You – your back,” is all she manages to stutter.

He seems confused for a second, frowning, before her understands; he only shrugs. “Aye. Occupational hazard.”

Whatever she’s trying to say dies in her throat, eyes never leaving his back. When he finally turns around to face her, she moves forwards and, hand on his shoulder, makes him move so she can see his back again. Slowly, delicately, as she’s afraid to hurt him, her fingers trace the thin white lines, from left shoulder to right hip. He shudders at the touch and only then does she realises how much she’s trembling too.

“Are those…?”

“Aye.”

Their voices are barely more than whispers, as if afraid speaking up will break the moment. He’s been staying with them for a week now, barely surviving the cold winter in that boat of his, and Emma has been doing a great job at avoiding awkward situations involving nakedness so far – for a whole different reason. But that,  _that_ makes everything even more awkward and she wishes she’d knocked, wishes she’d never seen it…

“Kings aren’t really fond of mutiny, love. I paid the price soon enough.”

He turns around once again, one eyebrow raised in concern that she doesn’t notice. Instead, her eyes trail on his body, on the several scars there. Some are tiny, others huge – results of sword fights without a doubt – but all look old, on his chest, his arms. Her fingers find his cheek, following the scar there, and he closes his eyes at her touch, takes her hand in his to kiss her knuckles.

“Don’t worry about me, love. This life is no longer mine.”

. 

The first time they fall in bed together, it is lazy and passionate, tongues exploring and teeth grazing, like the slow burn of a forest fire. It is not, contrary to what she thought, hurried and sloppy like many a one-night stand – the difference between a good fuck and  _making love_.

He lies on his belly afterwards, hugging the pillow under his head, content – almost smug – smile on his lips and lazy eyelids. Her fingers draw patterns on his tanned skin, writing love letters in invisible ink, marking him as hers with a simple touch. She leans against him and, slowly, delicately, traces his scars with her lips, trails of butterfly kisses on burning skin. He shudders, muscles tightening for a second, but doesn’t move, letting her do as she wishes. She kisses them all, one by one, until pain is replaced by love, dark past replaced by their future.


	10. home

She doesn’t remember it being that painful the first time – she doesn’t remember it at all, to be honest. Crossing realms with the Jolly Roger has been smooth, but jumping into a portal is _not_. She’s not even able to stretch out her arm and break her fall, face first on the ground with a groan of pain and a curse she would have never dared mutter in front of her son in any other scenario. The grass under her is soft, but the ground isn’t, and her muscles are already screaming. Great. As if she could allow herself to be sore on top of everything else.

After long minutes, she finally kneels up. Henry is already on his feet – because, obviously, children have catlike reflexes and malleable bones, lucky them – and gasping at something behind her. Her guard back up immediately, she scrambles to her feet, hand already on her hip to grab her gun and…

A smile curls up her lips, almost reflectively, relief washing over her.

“Mum!” His voice is barely more than a whisper, as if speaking louder would break the moment, would bring them back to New York. “It’s our castle.”

He heart swells at the choice of words. She looks at it, in all its ancient glory despite the ruins, and it isn’t home yet – but it could be. The life she could have had, the life that was stolen from her, the life she’s forced into now. She would feel sick if it didn’t feel especially _right_. They’re all there, she knows they are, and most likely safe, and it just feels good. She could get used to it, as strange as the thought is.

(Bitterly, she remarks that she has no other choice. Going back to Storybrooke seems almost impossible now.)

So she wraps her arm around Henry’s shoulders, pulls him to her in a hug and kisses the top of his head. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

A laugh bubbles out of his chest, the most gleeful sound she’s ever heard from him, before he breaks into a run toward the castle. She rolls her eyes, reflex from her cynical self, but follows him anyway, slower, hands in her pockets.

It takes them some time to reach the castle, but everything happens fast after that – Happy recognizing them from the top of his watchtower, yelling for everyone to know as someone else opens the door to them. The crowd gathering around them in the yard with happy cheers and rounds of applause. Snow and Charming breaking the crow to wrap them both into a tight hug – her father hand in her head, her mother’s kisses on her cheeks and laughs tumbling out of her lips almost manically.

It only draws on her then.

She did it.

She broke the curse.

(Again.)

“I knew you’d find us. You’ll always find us.”

Snow’s voice breaks in happy sobs, Charming’s grin dazzling her for a second, and Emma can only reply, “Yeah, that I did.”

It is followed by one more hug, Henry having somewhat found his way in his grandfather’s arms, arms around his neck and legs around his waist. Then a few more hugs from others, mainly the dwarves and her breath catches in her throat at the strength they put into this, until Regina finally breaks the crowd to have Henry jump into her arms. And isn’t that peculiar, seen the Evil Queen cry in relief.

Vaguely aware of Charming’s hand on her lower back, Emma then takes time to look around her, scanning every face, every happy smile. They all look exhausted but well, and she wonders what happened on his realm while she was fighting her way through the portal – the tale will come soon enough. Still, her eyes go from one face to another, almost frantic, green searching blue in desperation.

She finds them – _him_ – finally, finally, standing in the background, as if not quite sure it is his place. But their eyes meet and his lighten up immediately, even if he stays where he is. She can almost feel the push her father gives her, but she doesn’t need it, doesn’t need anyone forcing her hand.

She breaks into a run, pushing people who are on her way, faster, faster, until her body crashes against his, until his arms wrap around her waist and her feet leave the ground. He spins around, never letting go of her, as she hides her face in his neck, hides her grin and hysterical laughs. (She _isn’t_ sobbing and will punch anyone saying otherwise.) When her feet find the ground again, his back is to the crowd, in an attempt at intimacy, even if they both know most, if not all, eyes are on them. It’s not enough for her to raise her head, though, and she squeezes him harder, until their body melt, until she can feel his heart beating against hers.

“You did it, love,” he says finally, velvet voice against her ear, awe and admiration and _love_ bringing shivers to her spine.

“Did you doubt I would?”

He lets go of her then, if only to cup her cheek in his hand, and she drowns drowns _drowns_ in the ocean of his eyes. “Never.” His thumb brushes the sensitive skin of her cheekbone as he grins at her, and maybe her heart misses a beat right then. Forehead leaning against forehead, breathing each other’s air, they close their eyes in a contented silence.

Yes. The castle could be home.


	11. true love

The Enchanted Forest never had the natural cynicism of the Land Without Magic, creeping in your blood, numbing your happiness like the poison of the deadliest snake. And Killian Jones may have turned bitter and cold, Captain Hook may be sarcastic and heartless, but it doesn’t change the fact he grew up on the Enchanted Forest’s value and beliefs, and they always come back to slap him in the face, no matter how much he tries to deny them.

Values of honour and chivalry, of comradeship and selflessness – years in the Navy making him better than those knights everybody praises. He grew up with the familiar idea of love at first sight and _true love_. He knows it exists, but only ever associated it with kings and princesses and people with clothes that could feed a whole town. It is a concept as familiar as it is foreign to him, like some legend, some stories whispered in the dark of the night.

By the time he meets Milah, he’s enough of a pirate to think, with a chuckle, that it is love at _first drink_. The woman holds her alcohol surprisingly well for a housewife and, before he knows it, he’s falling head of heels for her and stealing her away from her life like the pirate he is. And even if Milah stays with him until the Dark Ones steals her back for good, Killian never really thinks about her like his true love – his lover, yes, surely, but true love, really? He no longer is the wee boy believing in happy endings, thank you very much.

He grows old and bitter and absolutely not ready for the storm that is Emma Swan.

They talk of her sometimes, the survivors, while he pretends to be a blacksmith between two secret meetings with Cora. They whisper of the Saviour who will bring its ancient glory back to the Enchanted Forest, who will save them all. They talk of her parents, Snow and Charming, with awe and devotion in their voice. They talk of the babe as a product of true love, and all he can think is that it’s a lot of pressure to put on the poor and delicate creature that is a princess. He also thinks how stupid it is, to believe in such things – the product of true love, the Saviour of the realms. It all sounds like a pretty story in a book, and Killian knows they are only that – stories.

He’s not ready for Emma Swan to turn his live upside down.

Maybe he hates her a bit for it, how easily it seems to be for her. She doesn’t even need a smile or a flutter of the eyelashes. It just works, with her determination and the flame in her eyes – he would gladly burn in them, like a fly attracted to the light in the middle of the night. He would burn his wings and burn his soul for her – he wouldn’t even think twice about it.

Killian Jones doesn’t believe in love at first sight – and it sure as hell doesn’t happen with her, because he’s too focus on his mission to think about anything else at first – and Killian Jones doesn’t believe in true love – but, damn, does that kiss in the Neverland jungle taste like it.

Someone had explained to him, once, a long time ago, how to boil a frog. You don’t throw it in the hot water, because it will immediately jump out of it. Instead, you put it in cold water and heat it slowly, for it to get used to the hotness. It is a trick used by Captains thinking about battle plans, and he learnt it when he entered the Navy.

That’s what happens with Emma Swan.

He doesn’t realise he’s deeply in love with her until the water is too hot, and then he’s just drowning, unable to reach shore. He drowns, in her eyes, his heart melting, his soul reaching for hers in desperation. He drowns but doesn’t die, and it just hurts. More than Milah – and, oh, does he hate himself for even thinking that – and more than the Queen squeezing his heart in his chest. Nothing compares to having Emma Swan next to him and only meeting her wall of insecurities and cynicism and lack of trust. He just wants to reach out to her and hold her and never let her go, just wants to prove he isn’t like the others, he would never ever abandon her like they did. He’ll stay, until she grows tired of him, stay by her side and love her love her _love her_.

(Things would have been different if she had grown up in the Enchanted Forest. She would have grown up waiting for her own Prince Charming, would have believed in all those lovely little values, and he would have been able to sweep her off her feet like the gentleman he is.)

(He wouldn’t have stood a chance, like the pirate he is.)

“I still don’t believe in it,” she tells him once, as her parents are sickly adorable by the other side of the room at Granny’s. It makes him gag a little, how bloody perfect they are for each other – he’d rather read his feelings as aversion than jealousy because, damn.

So instead he focuses on her, eyes bright and oh-so-green, so open and confused. Whatever she’s thinking, she snaps out of it with a shake of the head and looks back at him instead with a weak smile.

“Even back in our land…” he ignores her little face when he says ‘our’ as it is supposed to include her, “some people have a hard time believing in true love too. It’s a normal reaction.”

“Do _you_ believe in true love? Love at first sight?”

He only shrugs at first, thinking of the sensitive thing to answer. Something crosses his mind then, grin curling up his lips, and he leans against their table, leans toward her until she does the same, as if sharing a secret.

“Want the truth, darling?” She nods, almost eagerly, and he winks at her. “I believe in love at first beanstalk.”


	12. drawing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the hiatus fanfics begin!

Henry is a drawer.

It started the day he was able to hold a pen and scribble, way before he learnt how to write, and he never stopped ever since. Henry is a drawer and Emma is a collector, filling folders after folders of drawings. “It’s to sell them when you’re famous,” she tells him with mischief in her eyes but they both know she would never get rid of them. Sometimes he mocks her because she won’t let him hang anything on the fridge, and he call her a _hipster_ for how clean and Ikea their apartment looks.

When her job finally allows her to do more than just pay the bills, she enrols him in an art class around the corner, just because. He’s good at it and he likes it, letting those skills go to waste would be such a shame – and he’s in New York, no better city than this one if he ever wants it to become more serious.

Henry draws and Henry has the biggest imagination there is. It is pure and raw, flooding from him like a never-ending ever-growing river. He dreams of knights in shining armour and princesses on top of towers, of horses and pirates ships. (She had to unsubscribe from HBO when she discovered he was watching Game of Thrones behind her back.) He dreams and he draws, the two inseparable.

It starts out really simple when he’s four and it becomes more and more complex, detailed, over time. Most of the time they are the classic fairytales she used to read to him at night, but always with a twist – Little Red Riding Hood is the wolf, Snow White fights back, Pinocchio turns back into a puppet when he grows older. Emma has no idea where it’s coming from, because it certainly isn’t from her – or from Neal, for all it matters.

Her boy, the genius.

He’s nine when he starts learning how to draw comic books, and it’s the beginning of the end. His stories grow bigger and bigger – Emma grows concerned, worried that Henry locks himself in his own world. But he has friends and is happy, so that’s all right. He just has too many ideas in that small brain of his.

She’s cleaning the apartment when she finds his latest project – one he’s been working on for a while, not showing her but not really hiding it from her either. It’s just there, and Emma is just curious, so she goes through the pages, careful not to dirty them. There’s a beanstalk, so she assumes it’s a continuation of his first story about Jack – this one she loves, Jack being a woman, she just loves it – but there’s also Captain Hook and a character she’s never seen in his drawings before. Long blond hair, comfortable clothes – Rapunzel? No that can’t be right, she’s in another story.

“Hey kiddo, what’s this?”

He raises his head from the cupboard he’s cleaning, understands what is going on in a second. His cheeks turn pink immediately. _Interesting_. “That? Oh, nothing. Just, you know, something I’m working on and…”

Emma arches an eyebrow, always surprised of what a bad liar his son can be under pressure – she doesn’t know whom he’s taking that from either. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.”

But he does tell – Captain Hook and the Swan Princess, climbing the beanstalk to find a compass that will bring them back to their family. She frowns at the name, then smirks. “Is that supposed to be me?”

His cheeks grow redder, if it’s even possible.

It’s her cue to stop teasing him, even if she asks to read it once it’s finished.

 

.

 

He offers her the finished story for her birthday – this kid is seriously the cutest, she won the DNA bingo with him – and so she reads it the very same night, in bed with a glass of red wine.

It’s a complex story, his most complicated yet, a tale of love and trust and betrayal. It hits close to home in ways she doesn’t understand, familiar yet foreign. It ends on a twist, of course, and she’s left thirsty for more, for the sequel, the end of the story. She wants to know if the Captain and the Princess find their way back to each other, if they’re finally able to confess their love to each other – she isn’t exactly sure Henry was going for a love story, if he knows there’s one, but it’s here, between the lines. She wants the happy ending, fairytales always have happy endings. It’s not fair for those two characters to be kept apart.

She’ll ask him in the morning.

 

.

 

She dreams of blue eyes, crooked smiles and kisses in the jungle.

Perhaps Henry is finally rubbing on her.


	13. remember me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, feel free to send me prompts if you want!

She sees him first as he gets out of the precinct, squinting at the bright sun after hours spent under the dim artificial light of the police office. He seems lost as ever, looking around him like he’s looking for answers he doesn’t have – that’s when he sees her.

His whole face lightens up like a damn Christmas tree, creating a knot in her stomach. She’s never seen someone looking so happy before. She’s never made someone so happy before by just  _being here_. There is a first for everything, apparently.

He jogs to her, his long coat doing stupid things around his legs with each step, until he’s standing in front of her and grinning like the creepy fool his is – only, not as creepy as she thought him to be.

“You’re here,” he whispers, stating the obvious for himself more than anything. Like he needs a material proof that he’s not dreaming, that she’s not a figment of his imagination.  _Who are you?_  she wants to ask.  _Who are you to me?_

“Well, you were arrested because of me, it was only fair…”

“Good form indeed.”

He says that and it sets her brain on fire with how familiar yet foreign it sounds. It’s not the first time, it happens basically every time he opens that perfect mouth of his, yet she will probably never get used to it. It should trigger some memory but nothing comes, and it leaves her frustrated at best.

“Are you ready to trust me now?”

He takes the little purple vial from his pocket and holds it out to her. He doesn’t understand what he’s asking, doesn’t understand the magnitude of trusting someone who is not Henry, of taking that little leap of faith needed to just drink the thing and see what happens.

(She’s read Alice in Wonderland, she knows what happens, thank you very much.)

But there’s something on his face that tells her he indeed knows how hard it is for her, knows he’s asking the impossible. Like – like it happened before.  _Who are you?_ She tries to read it on his face but his bright, eager, eyes give away nothing if hope and fear and doubts all at once. And then he holds the vial higher for her to focus on, and she does, staring at it like it possesses all the answers she needs, like it could kill her with one drop. She doesn’t know which one is the worst-case scenario.

“Please, love. Just drink it, it will all make sense then.”

Nothing makes sense since he entered in her life. She wants things to make sense again, wants it so much it hurts. Her fingers are trembling when they wrap around the vial, and he gives her one encouraging nod. It’s all she needs to pop the cork and bring it to her lips.

“Just half of it, the lad needs to drink it too.”

She nods before taking a sip, and she closes her eyes. Nothing happens at first and then –

_A mobile with unicorns in a foreign bedroom with stuffed animals everywhere – a wooden wardrobe not quite Narnia but with the same power – prison and its grey walls and a baby crying and no I can’t watch him no leave me alone – Boston and its skyline and a small apartment – a red dress and a bleu candle and a kid with big hopes – a sheriff’s sad eyes and broken heart missing heart crumbling heart – Snow White Prince Charming beanstalk Pinocchio Mulan the Jolly Roger Hook Neverland Hook Tinkerbell Hook the Curse there’s not a day that will go by…_

Emma’s startled out of the memories so suddenly she stumbles back, dizzy and confused. She opens her eyes, slowly, carefully, green meeting an ocean of blue, and lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. He licks his bottom lip, nervously, and she remembers those lips on hers, not earlier but weeks, months ago in a dense jungle and…

“ _Hook_.”

Her voice sounds hoarse, but he doesn’t care, beams at her like he’s the happiest luckiest man on earth – she grins back, has a breathless laugh when his body crushes against her.

“Aye, love.”

He wraps his arms around her, his good hand finding its way in her hair, and it takes her a few seconds to react before hugging him back. She holds on to him as if he were life itself, holds on to him in fear of letting him go, letting him disappear in a purple fog again. Not again, never again.

And then another thought invades her mind and another laugh bubbles out of her. “Did you try the true love’s kiss on me?”

She’s not sure which one is blushing more, and damn does that look good on him, but there’s also a certain pride on his features, a blatant hope she decides not to ignore – not anymore. “It was worth a shot.”

She stares into his eyes, both her hands coming to cradle his face, a shy little smile on her lips that he mirrors. And then he’s kissing her, long and slow, and New York has never felt more like home.


	14. perfect

She meets him at work, and she may have never really been in a dating mood, not since Neal, not since everything, but there’s something in his eyes that changes her mind. There are brown and dark, like the most delicious chocolate, and it does the trick – she refuses to date men with blue eyes, she doesn’t know why, she just doesn’t do it. He’s funny and nice and totally doesn’t freak out when she tells him she has an eleven year-old son – also, he’s not married and perfectly healthy, mentally and physically, do you know how rare that is in this city?

He’s the kind of man you could easily fall in love with.

Emma isn’t in love with him.

She loves him, yes, that much is true. But there’s something about him,  _about all of them_ , which is never quite right. Never the right voice, the right smile, the right smell. He’s the closest to her perfect man, but not perfect enough, and it’s frustrating at best. Because he’s nice, and she doesn’t want to break his heart by going all White Queen of Narnia on him. It isn’t fair for him.

It isn’t fair for her.

She wishes she was strong enough to break up with him – but his lips are soft and he warms her bed on the coldest nights and he invited Henry to see the Mets with him – the never-ending quarrel as she”s still into the Red Sox after all those years. He fits perfectly in that hole in her life that not even Henry can fill – well, not perfectly enough, but still. And, well, he’s good in bed so there’s that.

Still, Emma isn’t in love with him.

And then, one day, out of nowhere, some leather-wearing stupidly-grinning pirate-looking dude knocks at her door and kisses her on the spot and it’s as if the hole never even existed in the first place. That is, until she kicks him in the balls and she feels empty again. Scared, yet empty.

After she closes the door, her tongue finds her upper lip out of reflex – it tastes like salt and rum and something else, something familiar. His smell is all around her, leather and the sea – damn him, he really goes out of his way to perfect the pirate look, doesn’t he? She shakes her head but all she can see is his eyes when she closes hers, the right perfect shade of Enchanted Forest sky and…

Wow.

Where did  _that_  come from?

“That’s okay, I knew it would happen anyway.”

She’s startled from her thoughts, raising her head from the straw she’s playing with in a too colourful too expensive cocktail and focusing on her boyfriend’s face instead. He smiles at her, sadly, and she feels bad already even if she doesn’t know why.

“You’re dumping me, right?”

Her eyes widen because, no, she only wanted to see him and forget about the craziness that is her life, if only for an hour and… did she? She isn’t sure anymore. “I’m not… Chris, come on…”

“Henry told me about the other guy.”

This man is an angel because he doesn’t even look jealous. Just disappointed, and Emma wants to slap herself because he knew it would happen, he knew she would break up with him at some point and… this isn’t fair. For anyone.

“Captain Sparrow wannabe?” she snorts. “The guy is a freak, seriously. Has been stalking me for days.”

“And you’ve been different for days.  _Better_.”

She tries to find a comeback, but her mind remains blank. Of course she’s been different, some weirdo is following around talking of Saviour and fairytales and beanstalks and… anyone in their right mind would be different after that.

But better?

(She doesn’t want to think how right he feels, how her heart misses a beat at his smile, how his eyes seem to know so much about her. How obviously in love he is with her and how fine she somewhat is about it. It’s all too weird.)

“I – I – Let’s go home, okay?”

She throws a fifty on the table and stands up, no worried in the least about Chris following her – he does, as she’s hailing a taxi with the firm idea to resolve whatever issue they’re having in her bed. Which isn’t an idea he seems to share, as he only leans to kiss her on the forehead, and it’s awkward at best. There’s sorrow in his eyes, and Emma can feel her whole body tense as she realises that, yes, it is indeed happening. And then he’s gone, a yellow taxi stopping in from of her, but the driver’s “where to?” is swallowed by a loud “Swan!”

She should be surprised, why isn’t she surprised?

“Seriously?”

He offers her one of his stupid grin, and all she wants is to punch him because _how dare you_. Instead, she rolls her eyes, folds her arms against his chest. He doesn’t look sorry at all, seems to be happier than usual – and it’s a lot of happy for one person – so she wonders how much he saw. Stupid idiot pirate stalker.

“Can I talk to you? Around a drink, maybe?”

Those blue eyes of his swallow her, and she drowns in them, heart beating faster. She just got dumped and her stalker is attractive and she needs alcohol anyway and it just feels so right, so she says “just one drink” and heads back to the bar without a second look.

He follows her like an excited puppy and asks for two rums on the rocks. She stares. “How did you –”

He only winks.


	15. the big deal

**five times Killian knows Emma is the big deal and one time she does**

 

one.

_You are bloody brilliant. Amazing_. After a too long life of half-lies and guarded trust, the compliments tumble out of his mouth with a breathless laugh, like he can’t quite help himself. Because she  _is_  brilliant, defeating a giant with the sheer power of her words and she  _is_  amazing in ways he doesn’t fully understand.

The compass is unsurprisingly magnificent, a true work of art if he’s ever seen one, but it’s her eyes more than the gold he’s drawn to. Going behind Cora’s back was a folly, he knows, a dangerous whim – it no longer is, because the Swan girl is a precious ally and they can help each other, they can be a team – they’re good at that, proved it not an hour ago.

She obviously doesn’t agree.

“You chose her,” Cora says, and he can’t ignore the venom in her words, the threat on the tip of her tongue. He should care, really should, because Cora proved once that she could crush his heart in a second and he does quite like living, thank you very much. But he doesn’t care, only thinks that he chose her but she didn’t chose him back, and it shouldn’t be painful because he’s a man on a mission.

It is painful. And he only react to pain with violence and revenge, the only two emotions he allows himself to feel. She betrayed him and she will pay for it.

So why does he feel, for the first time in three century, that revenge might not be the answer?

 

* * *

 

two.

There’s kissing and there’s  _kissing_.

This one obvious falls into the second category because, damn, he’s been kissed plenty during his long years as a pirate (and his not so long years as a lieutenant) but never like that. Never like the earth stopped spinning for a moment, time standing still around them, air leaving his lungs only to be replaced by her her  _her_. He can feel his cheek growing red, him, the pirate captain, blushing like a maiden with her first suitor, and doesn’t even try to come up with an excuse about the warm weather. He accepts fully the effects she has on his body – on  _every_  part of his body – and welcomes them like a blessing.

Because Emma Swan is kissing him like her life depends of it and, wow, he will manage to be in her good graces more often if it’s the reward he gets every time. Especially with the small noises she makes and, afterwards, the way her nose brushes against his, how she seeks his lips for another kiss. Princesses shouldn’t kiss like that, but she’s no princess, she’s more, will always be more.

_A one-time thing_. She’ll always be stubborn too, with those walls of hers tallest than a castle’s tower and stronger than a diamond. But it’s too late already because he’s falling for her, down down down, and there is nothing he can do about it, nothing she can do to stop him. He’s been falling for a while now, only half-aware of it, and the landing is painful enough.

He’s left alone with a sigh and fingers to his mouth, the ghost of her lips against his and the smell of her around him. Of all people, he had to fall for a princess, he had to fall for the Savior.

He had to reach for stars he will never be able to touch.

 

* * *

 

three.

He pinpoints the exact moment Emma has her memories back because it’s also the moment his heart beats again for the first time in a year. Her eyes widen in surprised recognition as they land on him, so open he can read all the feelings in them. She whispers  _Hook_  like a prayer, the word a caress on her tongue, and his heart skips yet another beat at the softness in her eyes, the shy smile on her lips.

He isn’t quite sure who reaches for the other first, but then he’s hugging her, one arm around her waist and his good hand in her golden hair. He breathes her in, failing not to be disappointed at the smell that is not hers – she smells like some soft floral perfume, not the mix of cinnamon and wilderness he’d come to associate to her, the very same smell coming to haunt his dreams. She hasn’t been the same person for a year, it was to be expected.

Still, the softness of her hair against his fingers is the same, and he closes his eyes. The city is foreign to him, its noises deafening but, for the first time in a long time, Killian feels home.

“You came back for me,” edges of the lost girl in her voice, breaking towards the end, as if she can’t quite believe anyone would do that for her, would place her first – years and years of abandonment he will never be able to erase, no matter how hard he tries. So he only holds her tighter against him, nods in her neck.

“Aye, love. That I did.” He will always come back for her, drawn to her like a mot to a candle, equally selfish and selfless. Selfish because he took her out of her happy ending, because he believes there is no happy ending for her if he is not part of it – selfish because he doesn’t want to share her with anyone if it is the lad, and maybe her parents if they’re lucky. Selfless because he would have never seeked her out if it wasn’t for the emergency of the moment, for the threat of the witch – because he will always put her first, cherish her happiness above his, love her like no one has loved before.

She steps back only to look at him, green of the forest meeting blue of the sea, and her smile then – shy, honest,  _loving_  – is enough to have him fall all over again. To have him hope all over again as he remembers what the Prince had told him once, about life being full of moments.

It’s a moment if he’s ever seen one and, without second thought, he reaches for her lips. She stills at first, but soon her arms lock around his neck and she’s kissing him back. It isn’t like Neverland, it is slow and tender, and Killian doesn’t care that they’re standing in the middle of a street for everyone to see, because Emma Swan is kissing him back like she means it. He pours everything he has in the kiss, love and desperation and hope, and maybe being in the middle of the street becomes a problem when she moans in the back of her throat.

“Let’s go home,” she breathes against his lips. He has no idea which home she’s talking about but he’d gladly follow her anywhere.

 

* * *

 

four.

Most of the time, if not always, Killian tries not to think about life before Liam’s death, before burning down the magical sail. He tries not to think about life as a sailor but, mostly, life as a member of the kingdom – his place low in the social hierarchy, not always having food on the table.

Sometimes, rarely, he can do nothing but think about it, because it comes back and slaps him in the face.

Hard.

She stands against the doorframe leading to the balcony, wearing nothing but a simple white dress. Her feet are bare and her hair falls down her back, glowing in the dim light of the full moon. She looks so peaceful, standing there in silence, eyes lost in the landscape in front of her. Breathtakingly beautiful, in that way specific to royals only – she might deny it all she wants, but it’s in her blood, and it comes out sometimes, when they less expect it.

She’s always been Emma, just Emma to him, refusing to label her as ‘the Savior’ – to reduce her to a single feature when she is so much more. But now, with her straight back and her perfect poise, now he sees Princess Emma in front of him.

She’s a princess and he’s the son of a fallen sailor, the son of a treacherous pirate. He doesn’t stand a chance, it isn’t his place, he has nothing to do here. She deserves better, deserves a prince who will dance with her while she wears elegant gowns and will woo her delicately. She deserves so much more than a pirate.

She might hear him finally, the shuffling sound of his feet, for she turns her head to look at him, a soft smile on her lips. “You’re staring.”

He has the decency to blush, like the awkward lieutenant he used to be, as he comes closer. “How couldn’t I? You are beautiful.”

She blushes too, her cheeks a pale shade of pink as she turns back to the kingdom –  _her_  kingdom – in front of her. They remain silent for a while, him standing a few feet behind her, watching the wind in the trees and the waves of the sea.

“I can’t believe we did it,” she stays after several long minutes, and he finally moves closer to her.

“I never doubted you would. That’s exactly why we needed you.”

She smiles again, but not at him, and she seems so far out of his reach then, as if he couldn’t touch her even if he tried. His body, his heart, ache for her in so many ways it almost hurts, dreaming to be hers if only for the night – to be hers until she grows tired of him. But he can’t, not here, not like that. Captain Hook probably could do that with Emma Swan.

Lieutenant Jones is out of his league with Princess Emma.

“I can’t wait to go back,” she finally confesses in a breath. It surprises him.

“You’re not staying?”

He knows David and Snow will, if only for a couple of months, to rebuilt the kingdom. As far as he knows, Regina is still confused on the subject, but it has more to do with Robin than anything. Tink will stay, that much is sure. Killian had assumed Emma would too, if only to stay close to her parents.

She scoffs. “The whole renaissance fair stuff? Not my thing.” And then, looking at him again, “Will  _you_?”

His heart beats faster at the way she looks at him, edges of the lost girl visible in her doe eyes, insecurities mixing with her fear of rejection mixing with hope so blatant it hurts. He reaches for her face, fingers brushing against her jaw, playing with her hair.

His mother always told him to reach for the stars.

Emma is a supernova of her own.

“I’ll follow you anywhere you want me to be.”

She smiles. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

five.

“Swan?” He stumbles inside the apartment, frantically looking around him but his eyes only find empty space that does nothing to calm him down. Especially with the way David run to his ship, saying that Emma had called, he needed to go back to the apartment, it sounded urgent. Killian could only imagine the worst from there – and the worst included a couple of unbreakable curses because those ones follow them like the plague. “Emma?” he tries again, and she comes out of the bathroom at the same moment.

He goes for a sigh of relief, because she’s here and alive and apparently not hurt, but the breath is stuck in his throat when he finally looks at her face. Her eyes are puffy and red from crying, hair a tangled mess around her face, and no among of biting her bottom lip hides how her mouth is trembling. But her eyes are sparkling and her lips curved upwards, the only reason his crazy mind doesn’t jump to awful conclusions. Still, he’s at loss for words, and apparently frozen on the spot, even with every fibber of his body scream to go and hug her.

“What happened, love?”

“I…” The words die in her throat, and she starts playing nervously with her fingers – he didn’t even know Emma could  _do_  nervous. “I’m pregnant.”

His only reaction is to blink. She looks up at him then, with a little shrug and a shake of the head, and he isn’t sure she means  _yeah sorry about that_  or a more casual  _I know, right?_

 All Killian knows is that his body decided to move again, and he almost run by her side – only to stop in front of her and, softly, with trembling fingers, he cups her cheek. She gives him a little shaky laugh then, adorable in its vulnerability – oh, how far is the time she had those big walls between them, how far she’s gone to be so open to him now.

“Are you serious?”

She nods, focusing on a point above his shoulder instead of his eyes, a little frown appearing on her brow. When she finally looks at him, he can read confusion and fear all over her face. “You’re not happy.”

It’s an affirmation, not a question. He vaguely wonders what he must look like right now, for her to imagine such a thing. It’s enough to have him snap out of her torpor, goofy grin curving his lips as he says, “You’re pregnant.” She nods again, warily this time. “You’re pregnant with my baby.”

“That’s the idea, yes.” And then she’s laughing as he wraps his arms around her and spins, nose in her neck. Her feet barely touch the ground again that his lips find hers in a sloppy kiss, and then he’s kissing every inch of skin he finds – cheeks and nose and closed eyes and forehead and neck.

“Bloody hell, woman.” Killian falls to his knees in front of her, delicately lifting her shirt to face the bare skin of her stomach. He glances up at her before kissing it, right above the naval. The gesture is simple enough, but he can feel his heart growing bigger in his chest, beating so hard it hurts – because that still flat stomach just there keeps the most precious treasure of all, one he had thought out of his reach for so long. “Hello there, little one. I’m your papa.”

Emma’s sob makes him look at her again, and then he’s standing up for yet another kiss as he holds her close. She always managed to surprise him in the most wonderful ways, always manages to catch him off-guard, and he isn’t exactly sure his heart can take it for it wasn’t meant to feel this much – time didn’t prepare him for a happy ending.

(He, somewhat, remembers a conversation with Regina about villains and happy endings, on his boat, a long time ago. She found a new lover and so did he, they both found happiness, so perhaps they didn’t waste their life after all.)

“I love you so much, Swan,” he whispers against her lips. “More than you could ever imagine. And I love her too,” he adds, fingers brushing against her stomach.

“Her?” she laughs between tears.

“Yes, it’s a she. Just wait and see.”

 

* * *

 

one.

The wind grows stronger with each passing second, forcing her to close her eyes as she grips the hilt of her sword tighter. Regina’s incantations, and maybe also insults, are only a low mumble to her right, and she lost sight of her parents minutes ago. Only Hook remains by her side, but she knows it won’t be for long either – the Witch wants her, and there will be no collateral damage today.

That’s at least the plan, until the bitch’s green figure appears in front of him, greeting Hook with her most dangerous grin.

Everything happens too fast then. The new blast of wind throwing Emma and Regina away, her grunt as she falls down quickly replaced by a scream of terror when the Witch reached for Hook’s chest – for Hook’s heart. Even from afar, she hears his moan of surprise, sees his features twisting with pain. Another scream escapes her lips, fear and anger and desperation.

No, not him, not again, everything but crushing the heart. Not again.

She scrabbles to her feet and runs toward them, towards him, her years of living in the streets coming back in full swing as her survival instinct takes the upper hand over her body. It doesn’t leave her time to think, only to clench her fist, thumb out, as she takes a swing at the Witch. It lands against her jaw, effectively surprising her, as Emma all but screams, “Don’t you touch him, you bitch.”

(Not her best line but, well, not much time to think about that either.)

The element of surprise allows her precious seconds to kneel by Hook’s side, hands reaching for his chest, his face. He’s way too pale for her liking, eyes closed in pain, and she already fears the worst.

“No, no, no, no, come on, Hook. Don’t do that to me, not now.”

She vaguely registers Regina’s voice is back somewhere to her right, but she doesn’t really care in that moment. She cups Hook’s face with her hands, thumbs brushing against his cheeks, as dread replaces adrenaline in her veins.

“You can’t leave me now, Killian. You just can’t.”

_I hurt his heart. Belle is just where he keeps it_. The words, his words, are clear as bell in her mind. She doesn’t want to dwell on them but does because who is she kidding anyway. It’s easier to pretend not to care, not to feel, and not only to protect her heart from breaking yet another time – she realises now it was to protect him too, even unconsciously, because being the Savior is dangerous and a burden she should carry alone. She can’t afford to let people in when she’ll be fighting the new bad guy next week, will be breaking the next curse in a month. She can’t afford to let villains hurt the one she loves in order to hurt her.

Yet it is exactly what happened.

What is going to happened again, if the Witch’s hollow laugh is any indication.

Emma covers Killian’s body with hers as best as she can, because there is no way the hag is touching a single one of his hairs again, and she closes hers eyes, waiting for the next attack. Closes her eyes and shivers and let her mind flows in desperation, the same way it did at Dark Hollow.

_Conjuring magic is not an intellectual endeavour — it’s emotion_. She feels his body warmth against her, feels his heart beating against her skin, his soft hair between her fingers. She wants to hear his chuckles again, the way he whispers innuendos that have her smile, that crooked grin of his. She wants to see his eyes again, blue and deep and soft, the way he looks at her with such devotion and love.

She refuses to let that slip between her fingers, to let any chance at building something with him being taken by Idina Mendez’s character.

She won’t let that happen.

The ground seem to tremble then – probably Regina’s magic finally working – until the wind is gone and so are the wicked laughs. In a matter of seconds, everything goes back to normal, and Emma slowly raises her head to an empty field. Her eyes meet Regina’s, and the shock on the brunette’s face is all Emma needs to understand – the magic wasn’t coming from the Queen. Of course it wasn’t.

And then Killian takes a shaky breath and opens his eyes, and all she can do is throw herself at him again, laughing in relief against his neck. His whole body tenses, then he hugs her back with a small laugh.

“Next time you want to climb me, wait until we’re in private.”

She’s shaking with relieved laughs now, squeezing him tighter. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” He lets his head fall back on the ground with a little grunt. “Now don’t mind me, just going to rest here for a couple of minutes.”

She shakes her head, unable to get rid of her smile, and plays with the hair falling on his forehead. “Yeah, you do that.”


	16. matters of the heart

The map takes the whole table, little steel figurines representing their (too small) armies, and Snow moves them around as she explains their battle plan for the following day. Her mother, Emma learnt, is the brain of the couple, able to create strategies and war plans in a heartbeat – years of leadership and experience. Robin chimes in once in a while for a detail, an added explanation, but Snow does most of the talking – David seems happy just sitting back and letting her do so.

“Robin and the Merry Men will stand on the left, with Regina in case they need magic. And you, Hook…” He raises his head to nod at Snow, proof that she has his attention. “You’ll be at the back with the people, making sure everybody is safe and not doing anything reckless.”

He glances at Emma then, Adam’s apple bobbing, before focusing back on Snow. “Not on the battlefield?”

“No.” The answer is to the point, leaving him not space to complain. “Now as for the dwarves…”

Emma can’t focus on anything her mother says then, even if she keeps her eyes on the map, because she feels Hook staring at her in disbelief. She tries to stay still, knows how important this is, and how important her mere presence is for everyone, but his eyes keep digging holes in her skin and, after long minutes of silence, she finally stands straight.

“I’ll be right back.”

She almost flees the room – she isn’t surprised when she hears the door opening and closing a second time behind her.

“Really, love? You’re going to do that to me?”

“Mary Margaret planned this, not me.”

She doesn’t want to face him, not now, not to have this conversation in particular. So she doesn’t move, if only to fold her arms against her chest, as she stares at a point in front of her and nervously nibbles her bottom lip. She doesn’t fool him, though – but then again, when did she ever? – and Hook moves to stand in front of her, forcing her to look at him with two fingers on her chin.

“So why do I have an inkling that idea in particular was yours alone?”

She tries to look away but he won’t let him, fingers tightening around her chin and eyes reading hers, looking for answers she doesn’t want to give – not now, not ever. She has to focus on tomorrow’s battle, on her role in it, and she can’t let her mind drift on things as trivial as her relationship with Hook.

(Which, all things considered, isn’t trivial at all, but she likes to convince herself otherwise.)

“It is the best choice. You’re good with the people, you’re one of them.”

“So is Robin, as far as I can tell.”

She wriggles, tries to look away once again, but the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Yeah, well, Robin has Regina to protect him.”

Her eyes widen and so do his, staring at each other in silence, until she effectively manages to break away. She takes a few steps, if only to put some distance between them, her back to him. It would be foolish to expect him to stop the conversation there, tough.

“Is that what it is all about? You wanting to protect me?”

All she manages to do is shake her head because, no, it isn’t all about that, even if she has his protection at heart. It is about so much more, and she can’t even begin to explain without the conversation leading to another one that’s been following them since New York, since he decided that a True Love’s kiss was worth a shot. She’s been avoiding this conversation like the plague so far, and she’s done a good job at it – she won’t stop there.

But the pirate is even more stubborn than she is, placing a hand on her shoulder as he slowly forces her to turn around and face him again. Emma makes a big show of staring at his chest instead of his eyes, which, all things considered, doesn’t help at all.

“Talk to me, Emma.”

Her heart misses a beat at his name on his tongue, so far from his usual ‘Swan’ and pet names, but also at the way he says it, with reference and awe, like a caress, a plea. She can’t help it then, she looks up at him, immediately drowning in his blue eyes, so open, so vulnerable, and she’s done – she can’t lie to him, she won’t lie to him.

“Yes, I’m doing this to protect you,” is all she manages to say.

“Why?”

Such a simple question for such a complex answer.

“Because…” She stops, draws in a painful breath. “Because of that thing you said at the hospital. About Gold and Belle.”

He frowns even so slightly, as if trying to remember – it’s only been weeks for her, but months for him – until a flash of realisation appears in his eyes, and his whole face goes softer as he raises his good hand to play with a lock of her hair, putting it behind her ear.

“You’re afraid the witch will go after me to hurt you.”

His hand travels slowly until cupping her cheek, thumb caressing the sensible skin here, and she leans into it if only for a moment, eyes closing on their own accord. “I know she will. They always do.”

She doesn’t want to think about Graham, but his sad eyes come to haunt her anyway, his shoelace heavy against her wrist. She can’t afford to do that again, can’t afford to put Hook into danger – she made that mistake once and it won’t happen again, she won’t let it happen again. She can’t lose Killian now.

“Who will protect  _you_  then?”

“I don’t need protecting.”

He scoffs at that, hot breath tickling her skin as he leans his forehead against hers. She can feel him shaking his head, and wonders if it’s a message or just him reacting at her stubbornness.

“I won’t leave you alone, love. You’ve been alone for far too long already.”

It’s soft, barely a whisper, bringing chills down her spine and having her heart ache for him, for this good, selfless man. All the more reasons for him not to be on the front lines, for him to remain safe. There are not enough like him around, the world can’t afford to lose him.

“Killian, please…”

He tenses at his name on her lips, remains still for a long time before, finally, nodding against her forehead. “If this is what you want…” and she can hear all the heaviness in his words, how painful it is for him to accept it – it hurts her too, so used to him being by her side at all times, with a comforting word or a soft smile. She doesn’t know how she’ll do without him, but she’ll have to find a way – it is for the greater good.

“There is more to it, isn’t it?” he asks, after minutes of silence. “There is something else you are hiding from me.”

Damn him for knowing her so well, for sensing all those things about her, all she thinks and doesn’t say, all she keeps for herself. Damn him for reading her like the open book she doesn’t want to be, for crushing all her walls one by one until he can finally reach to her.

“This…  _Us_. It can’t happen. Not now. Not ever.”

He stumbles back like she burnt him, and she already feels guilty for the pain written all over his face – equally betrayed and disappointed, but mostly hurt, so hurt he can’t even keep a straight face, the emotions written on his features, in his eyes. But it’s like tearing a band-aid, it hurts at first but the pain is only supposed to be temporary until you realise it was the best solution.

“I’m the Savior. I can’t…”

“Really?” he interrupts her. “You’re going for that bloody joke of an excuse?”

“It isn’t a joke!”

And then he’s over her again, cradling her face in his hand, hook delicately pressed against her other cheek, as his chest brushes against her, eyes burning with anger and determination.

“Why exactly couldn’t you be in a relationship with me?”

She opens her mouth, uselessly, for his question caught her off-guard and she has no answer to offer just yet. She wants to tell him, about Graham’s heart and Belle’s memory loss and how dangerous it would be for him. She wants to tell him she’s doing the selfless thing, for once, and he should respect that – how she wants to be selfish, just once, and let her own happiness be more important than everybody else, but just can’t because of the responsibilities that come with her title, her birth. She wants to say all that, and some more, but nothing comes out.

He jumps on the occasion. “Let me tell you what would happen then.” She finds herself nodding, and he smiles. “Nothing would change. You would still save the world and I would still be by your side, always. On the bad days you’d fight, and on the good day, you’d be with the lad and your parent.  _Nothing would change_. Except…” And he brushes his nose against hers then, voice lower and teasing. “Except I’d kiss you, and hug you, and I’d warm your bed. I’d make sure you’re never alone, and never doubting yourself.” His kisses were like burning caresses on her cheeks, her jaw. “And I’d love you, Swan. I will love you so much it will become a strength, not a weakness.”

She all putty in his arms then, grabbing his coat and tilting her head to grant him better access to her neck, breath coming out in short silent moans. Her mind buzzes, limbs shaking and body going numb – thanks God for his arms around her waist, keeping her against him.

“Let me love you, Emma. It’s all I’m asking.”

Her heart beats faster, almost painful against her chest, swelling and squeezing and melting all at once as she feels her resolve crumbling to dust with every brush of his lips against her skin. He whispers, “Emma, please” against her neck like a prayer, and something snaps in her, something that’s been there for way too long. She grabs his coat by the collar and lifts his head up until her lips crash against his, hot and hurry and passionate. It’s like Neverland all over again, quick and desperate, muffled moans at the back of her throat and his groans against her lips.

“I’m scared,” she says finally, voice weak and broken like the lost girl she is. He hugs her, tucking her head under his chin, kisses the top of her hair and caresses her hair.

“That’s all right, love. Everybody’s scared.”

“You’re still staying in the back tomorrow.”

He chuckles, hugs her tighter. “As you wish.”


	17. we pick ourselves undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beginning the cs movie month with what's your number minus the movie's slut-shaming undertones

Emma meets her neighbour a week after moving in her new apartment in Boston. It’s too early in the morning to be awake, especially with that little caffeine in her blood, and she fumbles with her keys when she hears a door opening behind her. She’s struggling with locking her own door, but still manages a quick glance over her shoulder with a mumbled ‘hello’ – it has little to do with manners and a lot to do with wanting to assess who’s living opposite her, because the guy in Seattle was a creep and a pervert and she’d rather not go through that again, thank you very much.

She stops in her tracks when she takes a good look at him because – dear god.

He stands in his doorway, naked from head to toes, only using a dishtowel to hide his crotch and, when he leans to grab the newspaper on his doormat, it gives her a nice view of his muscular back and an even nicer view of his butt. It’s only when he stands straighter that he notices her, and he offers her a grin. And he’s not just well built, he’s pretty handsome at that and – damn. His black mop of hair is a mess, and she isn’t sure if it’s bed hair or _sex_ hair, his smile crooked and his eyes the bluest blue she’s ever seen – Emma can’t help it, she stares.

The grin grows bigger as he leans against his doorframe.

“So, you’re E. Swan,” he says and, of course he has an accent, of _fucking_ course.

It only takes her three seconds before she starts wondering how he even knows that in the first place, and her surprise may be written all over her face for he raises the hand not holding the towel to point slightly to her left with the newspaper.

“Written on the doorbell.”

Yeah. Of course.

She checks the door is locked one last time before throwing her keys in her handbag with the firm intention to get out and away from him as fast as possible, but then he asks, “What does the E. stand for?” with a low and husky voice and – she’s just done.

“Emma. Emma Swan.”

“Jones. Killian Jones,” he mimics her, his tone sounding a lot like Bond, James Bond.

She rolls her eyes and, without another glance, she hurtles down the stairs because the last thing she wants is to be late for work because of her creepy-yet-handsome nudist of a neighbour. She’d never hear the end of it if she had to explain _that_ to her boss.

His “See you later, Emma Swan” follows her to the lower floor.

 

.

 

She finish her work at five, relishing in the fact she won’t have to spend the night tracking some asshole who owes money to some big company, and she’s planning her evening on her way back to her apartment – hot bath, Jazz music, and then a good movie or two before falling asleep. She almost sighs at the mere thought, can’t remember the last time she didn’t go home to tons of paperwork.

She’s pouring herself a glass of orange juice, ready to spend the next hour or so in her bathroom, when someone knocks on the door. Tempted to just ignore whoever it is at first, she’s startled by more insistent knocking and, cursing under her breath, goes for the door.

She’s less surprised that she ought to when she finds her neighbour in the doorstep.

“Wow. You’re dressed.”

He grins at her deadpan tone, hands in his pockets and looking at her through his lashes – nope, not effective at all. They stare at each other for a while until, with a sigh and a raised eyebrow, she silently forces him to talk. It strangely works.

“Do you have some extra sugar, or salt, or eggs, or whatever people use as an excuse for an ice-breaking conversation between neighbours?”

Is he for real?

She realises she may have said that out loud because his grin turns into a smirk, all traces of fake-innocence washed out of his face in a second. Emma tries not to be affected by his piercing eyes, or the way he makes a show of licking his lips, but images of his naked body keeps taunting her in the most delicious ways.

She rolls her eyes as dramatically as possible. “What do you want, Jones?”

“I told you, sugar or eggs or…”

“What do you _really_ want?”

He stands straighter then, fingers scratching his ear in what she guesses to be nervousness – it’s impressive, how many masks he seems to wear on that handsome face of his, almost as deceiving as hers. “I want to apologize for this morning. Not the best way to make a good first impression.”

“Is that an habit of yours?”

His smile turns impish. “Why? Does it bother you?”

She snorts. “Does an handsome naked man on my doorstep bother me?”

And, just like that, his arrogant bravado is back, with additional smirk and piercing eyes. “So you think I’m handsome.”

He steps closer to her, obviously invading her personal space, but she knows better than to step back and show weakness. So she lets his hot breath tickle her skin, loses herself in his blue eyes for a second or two – it’s been so long since her last one-stand, after all.

“I have eyes, you know,” she replies, playing along, and she feels more than see the growing smile on his lips when he leans against her as if ready to kiss her neck. “Too bad I also have dignity.”

And then, hands on his chest, she pushes him away – almost laughs at how lost he seems to be all of a sudden, eyes widening and sad pout on his lips, as if waking up from the sweetest dream only to realised it wasn’t real. She almost feels bad for a grand total of three seconds before remembering he’s a stranger and she isn’t that kind of woman.

She’s about to close her door when he says her name, and she stops in her tracks, waiting for what’s next. He offers her a smile, biting on his bottom lip. “I’m actually really out of salt.”

She doesn’t know if she wants to laugh or sigh, settles on rolling her eyes instead.

 

.

 

Emma isn’t really sure how it happens but, sooner than later, Killian Jones becomes her friend – or whatever you call your neighbour-you-see-naked-every-other-day-who-flirts-with-you-but-is-also-really-funny these days. It just kind of happens, between two conversations on the doorstep and him helping her with her grocery bags – those five floors will be the death of her really soon.

She’ll even admit he’s one of the best friends she’s ever had, which doesn’t mean much because Emma doesn’t do friends, but still he’s entertaining and…

“Hey, Swan.”

… and has that annoying habit of barging in her apartment whenever he sees fitting.

With cat-like movements, he jumps above her couch from behind, sitting next to her with that stupid grin of his, making himself at home like he was always meant to live here – they’ve only known each other for a month and he’s ready to put his toothbrush in her bathroom, the jerk.

“What are you working on?” he asks, taking a glimpse at her laptop screen. She makes a big deal of turning it out of his sight.

“Don’t you have women to bed or kittens to kill instead of wasting my time?”

“Darling, we both know you crave for those moments with me.”

She rolls her eyes, more by reflex than anything else by now, and turns around so she sits with her back to the couch’s armrest and her feet on his lap – she decided to throw manners out the window when she realised his habit of being naked was going to stay. He doesn’t seem to mind, playing with his phone as a comfortable silence settles between them – she likes that, how easy things seem to be with him, how he doesn’t force her to talk all the time.

Silence Killian is meant to break at one point or another, thought.

“Seriously, what are you working on?”

“Nothing.” But her reply is too fast and too harsh, not fooling him at all as he raises an eyebrow at her. She sighs. “It’s not for work, it’s… personal.”

“Maybe I can help?”

He’s been doing that a lot since she told him she was a bounty hunter – trying to help her, with all the curiosity he can muster, giving her advices and ideas. She’s too proud to say it out loud, but he is indeed good at it, with his little pep talks and his ability to sense when she needs a break, pushing her out of the apartment and buying her drinks at the coffee shop around the corner.

Emma never had someone taking care of her that way before.

“It’s just…” and she show him the screen, Internet bowser opened on the social services website. “Me looking for my parents, again. And failing. _Again_.”

She was almost relieved to see sadness, and not pity, in his eyes – a bottle of rum shared on the rooftop a week ago had been enough for them to learn they had both grown up without their parents, for very different reasons. _Orphans got to stick together_ , he had said, like they were part of a very select circle, and she had smiled with another sip of rum burning her throat.

“You won’t manage to find what you’re looking for on that website, love.”

And, with that, he pushes her legs away to stand up, making his way out of her apartment – he stops with his hand on the handle, though, and looks at her with what he thinks is his most adorable pout.

“Actually.” She knows it’s going to be bad just by the way he says the word. “Do you mind fetching my laptop for me? Just ignore whoever you find in my flat.”

She frowns at first, until realisation dawns on her, and she glares at him. “Are you hiding in my apartment until your one-night stand leaves?”

“She’s a late sleeper,” he whines, like that’s supposed to be a valid argument.

“You’re such a jerk!”

Still, Emma stands up too and, with a glare thrown at him, walks to his apartment. She’s relieved that it is actually empty, because she doesn’t know how she would react if she were to face some bimbo in her underwear, and finds the laptop in a matter of seconds. She slams it against Killian’s chest when she goes back to her own apartment.

“Coast is clear.”

“Thank you, love.”

He sits on the couch again, laptop open on her coffee table, and she frowns at all the software she’s never seen before, lines and lines of green codes on black backgrounds and stuffs that barely look legal, even to her standards. She looks back at his face, incredulous.

“You told me you were a musician!”

“Aye, that may have been a half-lie.” He flashes her a grin before focusing back on the screen. “So, we said social services…”

“Are you some kind of pirate?”

He scoffs at the choice of word. “I prefer _hacker_ if you don’t mind. I’m paid by big companies to break into their servers and test their security.” He glances at her then, and she has no doubt which emotions must be written on her face now, for his Adam’s apple bobs nervously. “Please, don’t fret, love. I really sing in pubs once in a while.”

She just stares at him, wondering when exactly she allowed herself to trust him – it stings a bit, his lie, after so many years of not opening up to anyone. But he smiles that crooked smile of his that makes his eyes sparkle, and there are undertones to it, like he’s trying to convince her of how sorry he is. She gets it, kind of, because her job isn’t something she speaks of easily either.

“I’ve got a deal for you, Swan.” Just like that, she focuses back on him, and his smile turns into a smirk and – uho, she doesn’t like that at all. “I help you tracking your parents if you offer me shelter so I can wait for the ladies to leave my flat.”

“You want me to help you being an irresponsible slut?”

“Basically, yes.”

Her lips are only a thin line, because this guy is the biggest jerk she’s ever met and he has to be kidding, but he looks dead serious and his laptop is just there, the answers waiting for her. She sighs. “Okay, fine.”

He has a gleeful chuckle as he leans to kiss her cheek and, as she turns a nice shade of pink, she wonders what she’s getting herself into.

 

.

 

She wakes up one morning to find him asleep on her couch, cradling one of the cushions to his chest, and she doesn’t even react. He wakes up to the smell of coffee and waddles to the kitchen, hair sticking in every direction and eyelids heavy with sleep. He sloppily kisses her cheek when she puts a mug of hot coffee in his hands.

She smiles.

 

.

 

“Sooo…” Killian says as he bursts into her apartment, laptop balanced on one arm and the other hand holding an apple – he munches it as loudly as possible because he’s a child that way. “I know you’re not supposed to ask a lady’s age, but I really need your birthdate.”

“Did you crack it?” she asks from her place on the floor, folders opened all around her and suddenly discarded.

“Did you ever doubt I would?”

She jumps on her feet with a loud, and somewhat embarrassing, squeak and they both sit on the couch, touching from shoulder to tight as she leans against him to have a better look at his screen – it doesn’t make any sense, even for someone used to cracking computers like she sometimes does for her job, but she has no doubt he knows what he is doing.

“We obviously can’t look at your social services file because it’d be bloody useless. _But_ we can look for women giving birth in Maine around that time period and focus on babies who didn’t go back home with their mummy. You’ll be one of them.”

“That’s brilliant. It’s going to take months, but that’s brilliant.”

He offers her one of his trademark grins. “It’ll take the time it’ll take but I will find them. I promise.”

She doesn’t understand she’s crying until he brushes the tears away with his thumb – she knows it’s stupid, being emotional over that, but nobody has ever done some much for her without asking anything back, and she doesn’t know how to react to his selflessness. Especially when he smiles at her, really smiles without a trace of arrogance or mockery, like he would do anything and so much more for her.

All Emma wants is to kiss him right now.

She doesn’t.

 

.

 

It’s past midday on a Friday when she receives a text that only says ‘save me’, and she wants to scoff at Killian for how pathetic he is with the way he handles (or, rather, doesn’t handle at all) his one-night stands. But she’s bored out of her mind and there’s nothing on tv right now so she just thinks _what the hell_ and stands up.

For all the time he spends in her apartment, she’s barely been in his at all, and she’s surprised to find it way tidier and cleaner than she thought – especially coming from a bachelor with commitment issues who spend his days on his computer for a living. Maybe she expected food containers and empty coke bottles everywhere, she doesn’t know. Not something that looks out of an Ikea brochure.

“Killian, honey?”

For a second, Emma wonders where – and _how_ – she’ll find him, but she doesn’t have to wonder any longer when a woman gets out of the bathroom, only wearing panties and a shirt too big for her. She stops and they stare at each other for a long time before the other asks, “Who are you?” with a confused frown.

“What do you mean, who am I? Who are _you_?” And she almost wants to laugh at the way her voice break towards the end, especially when the woman’s face suddenly pales as she connects the dots.

That’s when Killian decides to leave his bedroom, looking lost for a second with the deadly glare Emma throws at him. So confused he takes a step back when she snaps. “You cheated on me? With this bitch?”

There’s a flash of understanding in his eyes – good boy – before he stammers, “Emma… You were only supposed to come back tomorrow.”

“I can’t _believe_ it!”

The other girl keeps staring at them, obviously not willing to move any time soon, but Emma doesn’t feel like attacking her for something that is entirely Killian’s fault. So she settles on the only thought that crosses her mind then – she walks to him and slaps him so hard it resonates in the whole apartment, closely followed by a gasp from the girl, and screams, “We were supposed to get married!”

That finally does the trick, for the other girl runs to the bedroom and, in a matter of seconds, runs outside the apartment with her clothes in her arms, whispering something about leaving them to deal with their problems alone. Emma waits until the door closes behind her to burst into laughter.

“Okay, that was _fun_.”

Even massaging his hurt cheek, Killian starts laughing too. “You’re amazing, love. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Yeah, I’m that good.”

There’s something in his eyes then, as he comes closer to her, a hunger that wasn’t there before, and it freaks her out – mostly because the girl he had sex last night just left, and Emma has principles, thank you very much. So she does the only thing she’s good at: she freaks out and runs away.

 

.

 

“So, Christina Hamilton… is black.” Killian looks up from his laptop screen to her, a pensive pout on his lips, and she’s tempter to throw a cushion at his face for how stupid he is. “Maybe not.”

They’ve been at it for two weeks now, crossing out as many names as possible, working for hours every night and weekend, and Emma doesn’t see the end of the tunnel yet, like a never-ending wild goose chase. Maybe it’s just not meant to happen, maybe she’s supposed to remain an orphan all her life – there must be a reason why she was left on the side of the road, after all.

“Want something to drink?”

“Aye, coffee would be grand.” He rubs his eyes under his glasses – he wears them when he spends too much time in front of his computer, which basically means he’s always wearing them– and she has to admit he’s even more adorable like that. “Well, actually, no. It’s late, let’s call it a night.”

He stands up from his place on the floor – Emma winces at the sound of his bones cracking as he stretches – only to come and sit next to her on the couch.

“Want to watch a movie? We could marathon The Lord of the Rings or something.”

“You’re such a nerd,” she laughs, pushing him away with a hand on his cheek, before sobering up. “Extended editions, I hope?”

He stares at her for a very long time before mouthing ‘marry me’, and she can’t help it if she blushes furiously. But then he jumps on his feet, and the moment is broken.

“Actually, no. We’ve been spending too much time indoors. Let’s go out.”

He offers her his hand. She doesn’t think twice before taking it.

 

.

 

She tries not to be affected as he leads her god knows where with his hands on her eyes and his chest pressed against her back, warmth radiating from his body and breath tickling her neck as he whispers directions to her ear. It brings a shiver down her spine, this soft velvety voice of his, and she wants him to never stop talking – he could read the phonebook, for all she cares, and it would still captivate her.

“Okay, only a few more steps, love. Careful, don’t stumble… Here we are.”

When she opens her eyes, they widen immediately for she’s standing in the middle of the Garden – big and empty and only lit by a few neon lights, but it still makes her feel small and vulnerable. She turns to look at Killian, mouth wide open, and he only shrugs even if his smile erases the vibe of casualness he wants to send.

“I know people” is his only explanation.

Understatement of the year.

And then he throws a ball at her, that she catches easily, with that infuriating grin of his. “Feels like playing H.O.R.S.E., darling?”

“Okay.” And then she throws the ball, shooting it through the hoop easily, barely watching what she does. His jaw drops in surprise. “Oh, sorry. Did I forget to mention I was part of the university’s team?”

Killian points a finger at her then, and it’s all but threatening but she sees the challenge in his eyes and it makes her chuckle. “You’re on, blondie.”

They spend the next half-hour playing and trying ridiculous moves until all Killian wears is his boxers while she only lost her shoes. _Oddly familiar_ , she mocks, and he sticks his tongue out at her like the child he is before scoring a three-point shot that has her clapping.

“That tank top of yours is coming off even if I have to rip it off your body.”

“Is that a promise?” she asks, voice low and teasing, when he’s about to shoot, and he almost stumble on his own feet, the ball missing the loop. He glares at him, but can’t hide the hunger in his eyes, the way he licks his bottom lip.

He’s about to reply when they hear some commotion behind the rows of seats. It takes Killian a matter of seconds before snatching his clothes and her shoes, taking her hand and running away as fast as possible.

They only stop when they reach the docks, panting and breathless, and she leans against him, laughing in his neck as his arms wrap around her. “That was fun,” she says after a few minutes, looking up at him through her lashes. His cheeks are red and his eyes sparkle in the dark, and she really wants to kiss him right now.

So she does.

 

.

 

He indeed rips her tank top off her body that night, but who is she to complain?

 

.

 

Emma wakes up to warm arms around her waist and light kisses on her shoulder, and she leans against his chest, relishing in the moment.

She also realises it’s been weeks since the last time Killian sneaked in her apartment to escape his one-night stand, and she knows it’s linked, knows they’ve been tiptoeing around each other for far too long.

So she just closes her eyes and smiles, feeling loved for the first time in a long time – her little breathless laugh turns into a moan when his hand wanders down her body.

 

.

 

It takes them four more months before cutting down the list to one Mary Margaret Nolan née Blanchard from Storybrooke, Maine.

It takes Emma three more weeks to pick up the phone.


	18. I fell in love in a pub

She sets foot in the bar and he can’t look away.

Killian has seen his bunch of college girls, looking for the thrill of a night out, getting drunk on cheap beers and laughing too loudly. She’s something else entirely, holding herself like some royal even when she pushes her geeky glasses up her nose – he’s certain she smells of paper and coffee and too many hours at the library. Especially with her blonde hair plaited over her shoulder and the nervous smiles she casts her girl friends, like she isn’t quite sure why she’s here.

Yes, that one screams ‘bookworm’ and Killian knows all about them – he’s so out of his league here it’s not even funny. Yet he can’t stop looking at her, the way she stands straight and proud even when drinking whatever is in that colourful cocktail of hers. Little nerds don’t usually act like that.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by a not so delicate elbow in the ribs by Robin and a reminder he has to pay his round. With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, he drags himself out of his seat and closer to the bar counter, ready to jungle with half a dozen glasses of beer on the way back to their table. Buy the drink, take them, ignore the blond nerd standing next to him.

Should be easy enough.

That’s without taking Victor into account, of course, because the bloody bastard appears out of nowhere to tap on the girl’s shoulder with a glorious “Haaaaaave you met Killian?” before running away. Killian is left staring at the empty space, eyes wide because _how dares he_ , before he snaps out of it and smiles at her. She smiles back, clearly stiffing a laugh.

“Hi, I’m Killian. I hate my friends.”

She openly laughs by now. “Emma.”

“Well, Emma, can I buy you a drink?”

 

.

 

Turns out Emma is an English major, went out tonight only because it’s her best friend’s birthday – some spunky brunette called Ruby who’s flirting with Victor by now – and that she snorts into her beer every time Killian says something funny. Which becomes more and more often as he keeps making lame jokes that bring tears to her eyes.

“So what are _you_ studying?” she finally asks, her finger playing along the edge of her glass.

Here it is. He bites his bottom lip and looks away for a couple of seconds before looking back at her, almost impishly. “Geography.”

She can’t help it, she snorts again – the sound is less than elegant, but oh so adorable. “Wow, and they say _I_ chose a dead-end major.” He replies by a sarcastic little smirk that she chooses to ignore as she keeps teasing him. “So, what do you want to do when you grow up? Cartographer? Working in a museum? _Teacher_?”

“Well, aren’t you a funny lass.” His sarcasm feels flat, especially with the proud little smile on her lips that makes his heart beats fast. Damn her. “I just want to, I don’t know, travel and see the world.”

“You were born in the wrong century then.” She says that almost sadly, with a pensive little pout, before another smile curls her lips. “You would have been a pirate, back then.”

It’s his time to laugh, low chuckles as he steps closer to her. Still she doesn’t move away, lets him enter her personal space until their noses are almost brushing. “And do you know what us pirates do to little ladies like you?”

Her gasp is soft but the breath hot against his skin, lips only an inch apart. All he has to do is lean over and capture them, and she nods slightly, nose brushing against his, as to give him permission. All he has to do is lean over…

A loud whistle startles the both of them, forehead colliding, and Killian turns to glare at Robin, who only grins back. Bloody bastards, all of them. “Seriously, mate?” he asks loudly enough to be heard across the room.

Robin offers him a careless shrug. “The beers aren’t going to buy themselves.”

When he looks back at Emma, her lips are pressed into a thin line not to laugh, eyebrows shooting up with a mocking light in her eyes. He goes for a little shrug and a roll of his eyes. “Like I said. I hate my friends.”

Still he buys the beers, because he’d hate to stand between his friends and drunkenness, and is actually surprised when she followed him to the table, drawing a chair to sit by his side. She steals his beer and that’s how he knows he’s a goner – he never lets anyone take his food, let alone his drinks. So Killian only wraps an arm around her shoulders and kisses her cheek, lingering a little longer than necessary.

Five minutes later, Robin realises they shared a litt class in first year, and everything goes downhill from there – because they might look like the toughest guys in town but they’re all just a bunch of cool nerdy dudes and, right now, Robin is too busy talking about some authors Killian never heard about to care about their so-called reputation.

And that’s how he discovers Emma is writing her thesis about fairy tales of all things. It leads to one crazy debate about Disney movies, and then Disney in general, and by the time Little John starts talking about some weird tv shows he watched a month ago, Killian realises it’s two in the morning and Emma is drawing patterns on his tight, flashing him a smile once in a while, like she just belongs there.

Perhaps she does.

“Let’s go to my place, love,” he whispers in her ear, and she only nods in reply.

But they’re barely on their feet that Robin calls after him again and, if only for a second, Killian entertains the idea of punching his friend in the face. For good measure. Still, as he turns his head, something slivery flights at him and he quickly catches it before it hits him in the cheek. He’s only half-surprised, when he opens his palm, to see Robin’s bunch of keys.

When it comes to discretion, Killian has never seen worse.

“Check my bookcase, you’ll find the book I talked about, and some more”, the blond tells Emma with a grin. “I’ll spend the night at Regina’s anyway.”

A grin curls her lips, before she settles for stupor, eye opened wide as she registers what he just said, and Killian can only roll his eyes – yes, discretion is definitely not part of Robin’s vocabulary.

“Regina? Regina _Mills_?”

Killian hurries to put a hand on her back and forces her to walk away before Robin can effectively brag about his sexual prowess in public. “Yes, he’s your teacher’s toy boy. No, you don’t want details.”

 

.

 

“So,” she begins, dragging on the vowel as her finger trails against the covers of several books. Looking at the titles, not at him. “What’s your deal? Using your friend’s apartment for one-night stands so they don’t know where you live?”

He can’t help it, he laughs – this girl has so nerves. “No. Let’s just say it’s some kind of barter between us. He lets me crash in his couch when I’m too drunk to go back home, and I let him use my flat for other activities.” She looks up at him then, with a sly grin and a raised eyebrow, and he huffs when he understands the words she doesn’t say. “ _Not like that_. I’ve got a big telly, we play video games.”

Her smile is purely illegal by now. “Not judging.”

She laughs when he throws his arms up in the air, and goes back to looking at the books until she finds the one she was here for in the first place, with a little gleeful sound that does nothing to calm his need to pull her against him and get rid of her clothes. Especially when she flips through the pages with a fascinated smile, oblivious to his staring.

“Still,” she says after a few seconds, “bringing a lot of chicks here, I gather?”

She goes for a casual tone, but it doesn’t fool Killian – there’s an edge to her voice that sounds a lot like _jealousy_ , and he can’t help but find it bloody adorable. Barely known him for a few hours, not even kissed him yet, and she’s already all possessive – and he’s falling, hard.

He slowly comes closer to her until he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest as his lips find her neck. The book falls from her hand with a soft ‘thumb’ and she pulls her hair above her shoulder to grand him more access to her skin, tilting her head to the side.

“No, love. Just you.” His voice sounds low and breathless already, and he’s pretty sure it brings shivers down her spine. It makes him smirk against her skin. “Only you.”

She turns around in his arms to face him, lips coming to claim his as her own. Something snaps inside him, heart swelling and hurting from beating too fast against his ribcage – as if he needed the physical confirmation of what his mind had been screaming at him since the moment his eyes fell on hers. (A whole different physical reaction when her hips press against his, and he wonders if one can go crazy with love.)

“Where’s the bedroom?” she ask between two kisses, eyelids heavy and lips swollen.

He chuckles. “No bloody idea, darling. Maybe I’ll have you against the bookcase.”


	19. sleep

She comes to him in his sleep.

He’s dreamt of her a lot in the past few months, as she kept haunting his days and plaguing his nights, the thought of her never leaving his mind. She’s always here, the same way Milah did, and it frightens him – Milah was here, but she had slipped away, slowly, terribly slowly, until one day he couldn’t remember the texture of her skin, the colour of her eyes. He is afraid the same thing will happen to Emma, afraid to forget, to let his memory play tricks on him. Afraid she will escape him like smoke through his fingers.

He promised he would think of her every day, and forgetting even an ounce of a tiny detail would be a perjury, would make him a fraud; he can’t allow it. He can’t allow to forget the exact shade of green of her eyes or to imagine her hair more golden than they really are, can’t forget her rare freckles, the way her lips curls into even rarer smiles.

She comes to him in his sleep, but it’s not a dream this time.

He’s been in Neverland, and around her, and around Regina, long enough to recognize it, the low buzzing in his ears, the soft tingle in his fingers – magic. It’s weak, but there, her magic enveloping them like a safe cocoon as she appears in front of him.

In his dreams, she always wears her red jacket, or beautiful gowns with intricate hairdos – either the Saviour or the Princess. Not this time. She only wears a shirt, too large for her small frame, bare legs in plain sight and shoulder revealed by the too loose piece of clothing. Her skin pale and smooth, hair falling around her face in a beautiful mess of tangled locks. Eyes hazy, almost lost. He’s seen that look on her before, seen if five glorious times – the look she has when she wakes up, mind still clouded with sleep as she tries to chase the night off her with a rub of the eyes and a stifled yawn.

She stumbles from her own sleep into his, like one would fall down the last step of a grand staircase.

She seems confused at first, not quite sure what she’s doing here, but her eyes soften as she looks at him – a little shrug and a roll of the eyes that means  _yeah, of course it would be you._

He’s too stunned to react until he isn’t, crossing the distance between them until her smell tickles his nose, until her warmth come to sooth him. She smiles, soft and delicate, and he grins back. They say distance makes the heart grows fonder – his is swelling and ever-growing for her, too big and not big enough, beating fast and painful against his ribcage. He missed her, oh so much, and waking up will been painful, but she’s here, right now, and it’s worth all the heartbreaks in the realms.

He reaches for a taunting lock of hair, soft against his fingers as he tucks it behind her ear. His hand settles on her neck then, thumb brushing against her jaw. Killian isn’t quite sure if it is real or just a figment of his imagination – she will forget it all in the morning anyway, so he can be bold in his affections. Especially with the way she smiles at him, like she never smiled before.

He didn’t know you could fall even more in love than he already was.

And then she knocked the air out of his lungs, quite literally, her body colliding with his as her arms wrap around his waist. She squeezes, tight, tight, tight, until breathing becomes difficult – like she doesn’t want to let go, like she knows waking up means forgetting. So he hugs back, more delicately, hooked arm around her waist and good hand in her hair, kissing the top of her head in desperation.

“I’m living a lie.”

Her voice breaks, edges of the lost girl she will always be – when she looks up at him, he can read the silent plea in her eyes, the cry for help.

But the beans are gone and Jefferson’s hat still torn and he burnt that damn sail centuries ago. He’s stuck where he is, with no other option than to wait for a bloody miracle that will bring her back to him, that will allow him to cross the realms. It leaves him alone, knowing she wants him to fight his way back to her.

His heart breaks into a million of tiny pieces.

.

The Witch attacks the following day.

Finding her becomes more than a selfish thought.

.

“The dream.” Her voice is soft, as if afraid to wake Henry up as he sleeps on the back seat of her car. “It was real, wasn’t it?”

He remains silence for a couple of seconds, eyes lost in the Maine landscape as they make their way back to Storybrooke. Then he glances at her, carefully, and her eyes leave the road to look back – there is repressed curiosity in them, and something else he can’t quite name.

“Aye. It was.”

“I… I think I was aiming for Mary Margaret. You know, the whole sleeping curse thing.”

“And you found me instead.” A beat, and then, “sorry.”

Her lips curl into the tiniest of grin as she shakes her head, until a chuckle escapes her mouth. It’s barely more than a breathless little sound, not even passing as a laugh, but it’s still here and it fascinates him in some ways.

“I guess Gold was right.” She turns her head to look at him, smile growing bigger. “Magic being all about emotions.” 


	20. summertime

 “When I said I was offering you my ship, I only meant that one time in Neverland.”

His words drip with sarcasm and hang in the stifling summer air, as the three ladies lying on his deck clearly decide to ignore him. He wishes he could do the same with them, really, but his eyes are drawn back to them no matter how hard he tries to focus on some complex knots or on his captain logs.

It is what to be expected when three beautiful women use your ship as their personal sunbathing place.

He knows it has to be his Swan’s idea, for nobody else would be bold enough, or maybe stupid enough, to invite Lady Crocodile on board. And yet here she is, small skirt and even smaller top, lying on her belly with a book between her fingers and a large floppy hat on her head. He mentally thanks her for being the most decently dressed of the lot – mostly because he doesn’t feel uncomfortable looking at her, but also because that way he doesn’t fear the Crocodile’s wrath for ogling his almost-naked woman. Sadly, the same thing doesn’t apply to the she-wolf, who decided today was a good day as any to prove ‘decency’ isn’t part of her vocabulary. This realm’s fashion still puzzles Killian from time to time, and this outfit in particular hits the jackpot, barely more than colourful undergarments. She got rid of what passes as a corset hours ago, offering him perfect view on her smooth golden back.

But it’s Swan his eyes are always drawn to, wearing the same ridiculous outfit and lying on her back, hair fanning around her head. Her legs shift from time to time, sending the most indecent images to his mind, and all Killian wants is to toss the other two over board to have his way with her right there on the deck.

He doesn’t, going back to his logs with a sigh and a roll of the eyes. He was a fearsome pirate once, his reputation preceding him in all the seven seas – he’s only a puppet in that woman’s hands now, letting her do as she wishes with him and his ship. Vixen woman and the grip she has on his heart.

As if she can feel him staring at him, Emma raises her head and smiles – it warms him more than the sun hanging high in the sky. He smiles back with a wink, tempted to join her and taste the marine salt on her lips.

That is, until two distinct screeches startle them all, and they watch as Eric jumps on deck with a boy under each arm – which in itself is quite impressive, as one of them happens to be twelve and almost as tall as his mother. The prince runs across the deck and throws them both overboard. Two loud splashing sounds follow, and then fits of giggles come from the sea; Eric jumps too only seconds later.

Killian and Emma stands up as one, and he watches her draping a thin, almost transparent, piece of fabric around her hips as she makes her way to him. They both fold their arms on the wooden railing to watch the scene unfolding in the water below them. Roland paddles around Eric like a little puppy, laughing until he swallows water, while Henry floats on his back nearby. Ariel suddenly appears from nowhere, grabbing him by the waist and, with a surprising strength, she holds him above the water and throws him a few feet away. When Henry’s head appears again, his eyes are widen and his laugh loud, and it takes him mere seconds before splashing the mermaid. She disappears below water once again, tail sparkling with the sun, only to attack the boy again.

Emma laughs softly at their antics and, when Killian looks at her, she affectively bumps her hips against his. “Stop playing grumpy,” she says with a smirk, “I know you’re enjoying this.”

A lazy smile curls his lips then – open book going both ways. He can’t remember ever having a moment off since he met her, so today obviously stands out with its lazy mood and welcome peacefulness. Still, it says a lot that people feel so at ease around his ship, around _him_ , like they have done it all their life, like it is the natural thing to do. They simply followed Emma’s lead in accepting him as part of their little community, and he could easily get used to it too.

“I have to say,” he replies, eyes shamelessly landing on her breasts, “it has its perks.”

She scoffs and pushes him once again, with the shoulder this time, and Killian notices how she doesn’t completely withdraw, slightly leaning against him. His smile grows bigger as he plants a noisy kiss on her cheek. “You two are so adorable it’s disgusting,” comes from Red behind them, but Killian doesn’t care because of the promise of a midnight bath Emma whispers in his ear, mischievous grin on her lips before she decides now is as good a moment as ever to join her son in the water. Killian follows.

He doesn’t even complain when, hours later, David arrives with the firm idea of having a party on the ship – with optional barbecue and beers – nor does he when Snow, Regina, Robin and the dwarves follow the prince. He can’t remember the last time the Jolly was so loud and lively, and the two kids running around surely are a novelty, but he doesn’t mind. Not with Emma in his arms, so carefree and laughing, kissing him softly ever so often. Not when, for the first time in three century, he feels like belonging again.


	21. scars ii

Her fingers dance against his body, feather-like touches on warm skin, muscles tensing when she reaches a particularly sensitive spot – ribs not that ticklish but his weakness lays behind his knees and in the crock of his elbows. Emma sits cross-legged next to him, sheet only pooling around her hips, leaving her bare-chested as she waits for the penny to drop, waits for awkwardness to fall on them. It doesn’t, leaving only that blissful feeling Emma is so foreign with. Her brain finds the proper word for her – happiness.

“What about this one?” she asks softly, fingers trailing on a white line below his ribs.

Killian doesn’t move, doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know which one she is talking about, as the memories invade his mind and tumble out of his lips. “Ah, my first one. Apparently, teaching a ten year-old lad sword fighting on a ship when the wind is blowing strongly can only lead to a tragedy.” His lips curl into a small grin, and Emma mirrors him almost instinctively. “Liam was an amazing captain, but a very reckless brother I’m afraid.”

She scoffs at that, fingers travelling up his torso to brush his neck, tease his lip. He offers her a brief kiss before she dwells on the scar on his cheek, even if she already knows this one’s story. She draws the bridge of his nose, follows the curve of his eyebrows, and she can almost feel his eye rolling behind closed lids at her antics. It is well into the night and they should probably be asleep by now, tired by their previous activities, but she simply can’t stop touching him, exploring his body, unfolding his secrets. She’s surprised by how comfortable, how natural, this intimacy settled between them – perhaps as it was always meant to be, and she welcomes the feeling where it would have scared her to no end only months ago. She welcomes him, body and soul, against her, tirelessly.

“This one?” A large gross-looking one close to his liver that looks like it was patched up hastily by someone who had never held a needle before – but then again, _pirates_.

Killian sighs, out of principle, but answers anyway, tells her of a looting gone wrong and the five men he lost that day. She watches as annoyance appears on his forehead at the memory, as if he still can’t accept such a failure. But the tale ends in a surprising victory, even if the other captain managed to run him through with his sword. Killian spends more time talking about the money they made that day, diamonds and golden coins, than he does about the actual injury, and that is fine with her.

She knows better than to ask about the more gruesome scars – the several ones slashing his back she knows are from whipping, the missing hand, the ugly one on his calve. She instead asks about the small ones, asks for the pirate tales hidden behind them, for the adventures he likes to share. And he does, perfect storyteller that he is, drawing landscapes and terrible battles for her only with his words.

Her fingers comes to dance on a funny-looking scar above his hip, shaped as a Z, and she raises an eyebrow as Killian’s whole body stills against her before he relaxes again – as if hoping she wouldn’t notice, too bad for him she did. “What do we have here, captain?” she singsongs.

“Nothing.” His reply is too harsh, too far, not fooling anyone and… is he _blushing_? A discrete shade of pink tints his cheeks, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, eye stubbornly staying close. She isn’t sure if it is embarrassment or nervousness, perhaps a mixture of both, but it is enough to know she found the most interesting scars of all.

“Come on, Killian. What happened?”

He only shakes his head, left forearm coming up to hide his eyes – yep, definitely embarrassment. Emma waits a few more seconds before he sighs, deep and loud, like a man about to be executed on the market place. “It wasn’t long after we landed in Neverland. I was still adjusting to the hook, drunk more often than not, and…” He uses his good hand to mime his point, curling his index finger in a quick back and forth movement against his skin.

It takes Emma a few seconds to catch up.

She bursts into laughter. So hard it turns into small hiccups and she lets herself fall to her side, legs still crossed, laughs buried against the pillow. Killian cracks an eye open, annoyed at first that she’s not so subtlety mocking him, but a smile settles on his lips simply looking at her.

“Oi!” he tries to say, unable to pour more than amusement in his voice. Both arms dart around her waist then, pulling her to him and raising up on his elbows to look down at her. “I’m glad my misfortunes bring you such happiness, darling, but there is so much a man can take before being offended.”

She doesn’t find it in herself to care about his ego, not when her main problem is to bring some air to her lungs between two laughs. Her body was already sore but her ribs now scream in sweet agony, and it’s like the gateways opened and are impossible to close again. She just laughs and laughs, and it feels so _good_ to let go after many months being the Saviour, being everyone’s anchor.

“You’re the worst pirate I know,” she croaks, breathless, and feels more than see him rolling his eyes.

“Sorry to break it to you, lass, but I’m the _only_ pirate you know.” And then, because it seems like the only way to have her quiet down, he kisses her – successfully, may she add, swallowing her giggles, turning them into a moan when his tongue tease her upper lip and his hand roam her body. With reverence and love in his voice, he whispers, “I never heard you laugh before. It suits you.”


	22. snapshots on a pirate ship

He hears the screams and footsteps before they even reach the deck, hears the loud ‘thump’ of someone jumping on board before he has time to go out of his cabin, and Killian recognizes the yelled ‘Henry!’ without a glance at the woman – her voice, even angry, is always a song to his ears, one he’d recognize in the most dangerous storm.

“Henry! Henry, come back down immediately!”

Killian is welcomed by the sight of the lad climbing up the rigging, fairly quickly may he add, to sit on the topsail yard like he belongs here. Obviously sulking, and Killian’s lips curl into a grin at that thought even when he shakes his head – of course the lad would use his ship to brood, far away from people and high enough that his family wouldn’t reach him. Clever boy.

“What happened?” he asks softly, and Emma startles at the sound of his voice, looking at him with wide, scared, eyes.

“The fuck if I know. Everything was fine and the next second he slams the door behind him and I have to run after him all the way down here.” She turns to the mast again, looking up, voice louder. “Henry! Come down before you break your neck!”

“Who cares?” comes from above even if they can’t see him, hiding between the sails, “You’re going to replace me anyway.”

They share a look, both as surprised as the other by those words in Henry’s mouth, and startled at the same time by something small and white falling at her feet. Killian frowns at the unknown object; Emma blanches as she leans down to pick it. He comes closer to look above her shoulder, two little pink lines seemingly mocking her. Killian is about to ask when she raises her head again, as if trying to catch a glance of her son between the sails and ropes.

“It’s not mine! I swear, kid it’s not. You’re…” She stops, shakes her head again. “You’re going to be a nephew, not a brother.”

She only gets silence as an answer, and realisation dawns on Killian – shared secrets in a dark cave, a lifetime ago, promises of love and family. He swallows as he looks back at Emma, how scared and lost she seems to be in that moment. She didn’t know either, and what a horrible way to learn the news. He wants to take her in his arms but doesn’t, knows she’s entirely focusing on Henry not to dwell on her own issues on the subject. She’ll need him later, not now.

Still, he can’t help but scoffs when Henry finally graces them with a perfectly cold “It still sucks!”, Emma too busy glaring at him to care about her son’s language.

“The apple never falls far from the tree, love,” he says. It takes her a few seconds to understand, but she smiles, weakly, especially when he kisses her on the cheek in what he wants to be a reassuring gesture. “I’ll talk to him.”

Killian doesn’t let her time to protest, already reaching for a nearby rope and, even if not as quickly and gracefully as the lad, he makes his way to the top, sits on the topsail yard next to him. Henry barely glances at him before he goes back to staring at the ocean in front of them, and they remain silent, only listening to the sound of seagulls and waves crashing against the boats. It could be peaceful, were it not for the boy’s trouble mind, thoughts so loud Killian can almost hear them.

“I miss my dad,” Henry finally whispers, so softly the wind almost eats his words. It’s been a few months since Neal’s murder by the hand of the Witch, the wound of his absence still open for many of them. “Regina has Robin, and Emma has you. But with my dad, it was only him and me, and… And now Gramps will be too busy being a dad too. He wasn’t a dad with mum, you know, not really, but he will be now and…”

“And you are afraid he will not spend as much time with you as he used to.”

He sees Henry nodding from the corner of his eyes, but forces himself not to turns his head – he knows a thing or two about the Swans and not wanting to look weak in front of others. So Killian pretends to ignore the tears, the breaking voice, as he keeps his eyes on the sea in front of him.

“Am I selfish?”

Killian chuckles. “Lad, I’m sure giving your heart to save magic makes you as selfless as you can get. Your mom – _moms_ love you and so do your grandparents. This is a complicated situation for all of us, but we will find a way to adapt.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s so weird. In both my lives I was alone with my mum and now…”

“Bit crowded, innit?” Killian scoffs. “At least you’ll remain the eldest child. Trust me, being the youngest is not that pleasurable.”

He feels the boy staring at him for long minutes before he speaks again. “You’re not half bad, I guess. I mean, I still don’t want you to make babies with my mum, but she could do worse.”

“Oi! Watch your tongue, boy. That high, accidents happen so fast.” But he’s grinning now, and so is Henry, sharing a meaningful glance before laughing. “Get down now, don’t let your mother worry for too long.”

It takes them longer to climb down the ropes that it did to go up but, as soon as he sets foot on deck again, Emma wraps Henry in a tight hug. They whisper to each other, so low and quickly that Killian can’t make out the words, but then Emma smiles at him, and he reads in her eyes the thanks she doesn’t say.

Killian smiles back.

 

…

 

“What the bloody hell did you do to my ship?”

All eyes fall on the newcomer as his voice rises above the sound of Granny’s little bell. He makes his way to the booth occupied by the Charmings and purposefully stops in front of Snow, anger in his eyes as he stares at her. She doesn’t miss a beat, standing up quickly despite her swelling belly, mustering all the royal charisma she usually tones down, daggers in her eyes as she stares back – Emma’s snort can be heard all across the room as Killian takes a cautious step back. The queen may only reach his shoulder but he heard of her tales and adventures, knows of her reputation. He almost immediately regrets yelling at her.

Almost.

“I thought you agreed to offer us your ship for the occasion,” she says sweetly, too sweetly, and he doesn’t miss the edge in her voice, the casual threat hidden there. Never cross a pregnant woman, his brother used to say. Killian begins to understand why now. But, still.

“Aye. Doesn’t mean you had to go out of your way and do… _this_!”

He vaguely gestures with his hand to what he believes to be the direction of the docks, but the motion falls flat when Snow takes another step closer to him and he moves back yet again. He knows there is fear in his eyes as he fights to keep some distance between them, knows it makes him weak, especially in front of an audience such as Granny’s regulars. But Killian quite likes living, and something tells him she could kill him, with only her little finger, in her sleep, if she felt like it.

“I thought Eric was your friend?” she asks, still with that same tone that doesn’t match her predatory behaviour.

“Aye” is his only reply, because he can’t very well say otherwise. The Prince and he became somewhat friends along the way, in that ‘let’s fish and talk about boats together’ fashion that suits Killian – it’s simple and easy, far from the complex relationship he has with David and the glares half the town still throws at him once in a while.

“So who are you to deny his fiancée the wedding of her dreams?” He opens his mouth to reply, to say he is quite fine with letting the ceremony happen on the Jolly Roger, but what she did to it is another story entirely. She doesn’t let him, thought, her voice lower and more serious – for his ears only, despite the crowd around them. “My family may have accepted you, but don’t believe it is that easy. We are still royals, one day we’ll be back to our kingdom, and things will change. You can pretend you’re only Emma’s boyfriend while we’re still in Storybrooke, but over there you’ll be the princess’s suitor. So if you want things to go as smoothly as possible, I suggest you think about the politics here, Jones, and be friends with more than my husband. Ariel wants garlands and lanterns on your ship for the ceremony? We give her the damn garlands and lanterns!”

Speechless and eyes wide, he can only nod in reply, and Snow finishes with a simple ‘good’ before going back to her seat next to her husband. Killian remains still, standing in the middle of the room for a few seconds before shaking his head and leaving the dinner.

Emma runs after him only seconds later, both her arms wrapping around his. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies, stopping in his track to look at him. Her curiosity equals his confusion, but he already feels better with the way she smiles at him. “I believe your mother just gave us her blessing… in some really frightful manner.”

 

…

 

The sound of wood on wood and little laughs breaks the usual silence of the sea, going along with unsteady footsteps and the occasional command given by the bandit. Killian sits on the deck with his back to the railing, playing with Emma’s hair as she turned his lap into a pillow and peacefully reads a book. His eyes carefully follow the fight unfolding in front of him, the two children waving wooden swords at Robin. If Henry knows the rudiments of swordplay, Roland is fairly new to it and his little arms barely carry the sword, let alone allow him to block his father’s blows. Still, he’s as stubborn as the rest of his family, doing his best, and Killian can already see the mighty warrior he will soon become – surely he will have his place in the King’s guard next to Henry in a near future. Not that Killian would ever say that aloud in front of Emma or Regina, mind you.

“Go on, boys! Teach the damn fox a lesson!”

Emma starts chuckling as Robin stops in his tracks, mouth opened in surprise at the low blow – it gives Henry the perfect opening to hit him in the ribs, and he barely manages to dodge it. “Children, here’s the lesson of the day: don’t listen to men who think moustache and long curly hair are fashionable.”

Henry is losing it by now, sword and body trembling with his laughter, but Roland surprisingly manages to remain calm as he keeps fighting his father – Killian thinks it’s more about not understanding the joke than it is about it not being funny.

“Showing you those movies may be the best idea David ever had,” Emma casually says, eyes not even leaving her book, and Killian can only laugh in reply – indeed it was, more entertaining than he would have thought.

They fight for another half hour, and then Henry plops down next to him, smelling of sweat and exhaustion as he leans against Killian’s shoulder to catch his breath. The gesture doesn’t even surprise him – too many hours spent together, too many shared moments, shared secrets, for them to be uncomfortable around each other. Killian pats the boy’s leg with the side of his hook, and receives an exhausted grin in reply.

 

…

 

“Oh my god, David! Look!”

Even if she only calls after her husband, all heads turn to Snow as she kneels down with an expression on her face that can only be described as _gleeful_. In front of her, little arms stretched out to find some balance, baby Eva takes a few tentative steps – her first.

And of course, all people on deck, from the she-wolf to Robin, stop whatever they’re doing to stare at the little princess, completely discarding the barbecue they were having on the Jolly Roger. Eva falls in her mother’s arms with an adorable little laugh before David kneels next to them, and the girl willingly accepts to walk again, for her father this time. Instinctively, Killian’s fingers tighten their grip around Emma’s hip, her hand carefully placed on his chest as if bracing herself – it’s still hard, but she faces each new blow like the tough lass he knows her to be.

“Glad to see at least one Charming has sea legs!” Killian says loudly to be heard across the deck, and David stops kissing his daughter’s face long enough to glare at him.

As if on cue, and much to Killian’s delight and his grandparents’ annoyance, Henry adds, “Eva, pirate queen of the seven seas!”

They high-five with loud laughs, and he doesn’t need to look down to know Emma is rolling her eyes with a little smile – as much as she tries to hide it, she’s grateful for how well her men get along, even if it means mischief and childish jokes. And he likes it too, that special bond between them, even deeper than the one he had with Baelfire a long time ago. And even if the lad always makes a point of reminding him he will never quite be his father – he respects that, even during their nastiest arguments, respects the place Neal had in Henry’s life – it is as close as one can get.

“You know,” he whispers to Emma’s ear with a little nod toward Henry, as everyone go back to their food and discussions and Roland starts playing with Eva, “Even if we never have wee ones, I’m more than fine with the lad.”

“Oh,” she only says at first, disentangling herself from his arms. She grins at him. “Well, that’s awkward.”

Not waiting for his reaction, she moves closer to the barbecue, with a wink for him above her shoulder – it clicks then.

“Emma – are you – come back – _Swan_!”

 

…

 

When you live for three long centuries and are in love with the so-called Saviour, nothing fazes you, not really. He’s seen and done too much, both in this realm and the other.

Still, finding Henry on top of the mast, his usual sulking place, as he snogs Jefferson’s daughter… Aye, that one is a bit of a surprise.

 

…

 

By some miracle and no small dose of magic, Anton manages to grow beans again and it doesn’t take long before the whole town whispers of going back home at last. The notion is lost on him. For so long, home was the Jolly and months at the sea, only him and the waves, the wind. Now he basks in the saying, _home is where the heart is,_ eyes always looking for her in the crowd, heart beating to the sound of her name. He knows her place isn’t in her parents’ kingdom, knows she will be torn about what to do – still, he will follow her everywhere, will keep his family in Storybrooke if she wishes it to stay here, will help her settle in the new realm if she wants to follow her family.

Soon, the Jolly’s cabins are full of people and boxes, food and clothes and everything they’ll need to survive in the Enchanted Forest, and he finds himself travelling between realms every day to transport people – who would have thought they were so many in such a little town. Emma is yet to make her mind, and he comes back to her, to _them_ , every night.

“I became a pirate to stop following a king’s orders and here I am, doing it all over again.”

He cradles his sleeping daughter to his chest as he’s lying down in the couch, Emma doing one thing or another in the kitchen while Henry is packing upstairs – he’s to come aboard tomorrow and spend the summer holiday at Regina’s castle. Killian isn’t exactly sure he’ll be willing to come back after two months in his girlfriend’s realm, but they all pretend otherwise for the time being.

“Stop complaining, you enjoy the attention.”

He scoffs, craning his name to look at her above the couch’s armrest. “You father wants to rename her. The _Jewel of the Realms_ , he says. Plural. What a fantastic sense of humour.”

Of course, because she shares her sense of humour with David, Emma laughs as she comes closer to ruffle his hair and kiss him. “She was always meant for more glorious purposes than stealing and mindless drinking. You’d do her a favour by renaming her.”

Killian is about to complain yet again when Henry tumbles down the stairs in all his royal glory – teenage years making him lanky and awkward at best. “Hey, mum, where do I put your suitcases?”

Emma smiles sweetly at him as his eyes widen. “Oh by the way…”


	23. love on a battlefield

“What I wouldn’t give for a shower right now…”

The water is brown with blood and dirt as she puts a sponge in the bucket, squeezing it tightly before pressing it against Killian’s back. They’ve changed the water twice already, but the task of cleaning up seems endless, and Emma would literally kill for a hot shower right now. Or simply a waterfall to do the trick, she’s not even picky at this point.

“For once, I share the feeling about your modern technology,” he replies as he cleans his arm with yet another sponge.

There is so much blood, brown and sticky and clinging to him like a second skin, yet it says a lot about her that her stomach doesn’t even react anymore. Those stupid flying monkey deserved their fate, after all, and she’d grateful that it was those monsters instead of her friends – no casualties, barely even a scratch, but she isn’t naïve enough to hope it will be the same every time. For now, she is just relieved they are alive and well – even if drenched in monkey blood.

“Regina better teach me some cleaning spells soon.”

Killian only laughs at first, before looking at her above his shoulder. She reads the mischief in his blue eyes, braces herself for the innuendo that will arrive sooner than later. “Don’t you enjoy the intimacy of a sponge bath, my love?”

“No,” she answers in a laugh. “You smell like some dead beast. So hot.”

He laughs again, the sound dying at the back of his throat when she kisses his (now clean) shoulder. It _is_ a rather intimate moment, alone in her royal quarters without a maid – or worst, her parents – to disturb them. The sun is setting, everyone resting after the battle of the day, leaving them some well-deserved moments alone.

She grabs his arm and pulls it up to clean his ribs, smiling first at how docile his is in her hands then at the way his muscles tense when she touches the sensitive zone. Captain Hook, ticklish? This life would never cease to surprise her.

It takes them another half hour to clean up, skin pink and sensitive from too much rubbing, the smell of death and war still clinging to them. Killian doesn’t move from his place on the floor, sitting between her legs with his back to the bed, her fingers playing with his hair, as they talk of their plans for the following day. Her hands travel from his head to settle on his shoulders, thumbs pressing in his tense muscles and making him moan.

“Okay, come here,” she says, pulling him up on the bed, legs still around his waist.

Emma starts slowly, hands drawing circles on his back, fingers pressing slightly against his sore muscles, but it is enough for him to produce noises that would have anyone walking by the room jumping to the wrong conclusions. His head lolls forwards, a breathless “ _oh gods_ ” on his lips as she works on the bundles of nerves here and there. She tries, hard as she can, to ignore the warmth in her belly with each sigh, each moan he makes, because she is too exhausted to have such thoughts, but damn do those noises sound lovely in his mouth.

(And maybe she’s proud to be the one he’s moaning for, even with something as simple as a massage.)

“Bloody hell, Swan, is there anything you _can’t_ do?”

“Staying out of trouble, apparently.”

He laughs, low and deep, turning around to face her and capture her lips – she’s the one to moan this time, the noise stuck at the back of her throat. “Where would be the fun in _that_?”

Where indeed.

 

…

 

“I told you we should have used the Troll Road.”

She grits her teeth in an effort not to snap at him – or, worse, break his neck. “So not helping.”

What was only supposed to be a trip to Regina’s and back, to drop Henry off for a week or two, had of course turned into an ambush and half a dozen men surrounding them on their way back to the castle. Emma could only curse under her breath at their luck – or, rather, lack of. Brigands and rebels are rare now that the kingdoms are pacified and Robin Hood a friend of the crown, but it never stops little groups for seeking trouble. And of course, Emma thinks with a sigh, the brigands have found her and Hook.

Motions coming from hours of habit, Killian slowly turns around, sliding to his right so they stand back to back as they both unsheathe their sword only seconds before the brigands attack. Surely they were expecting some merchants or lost travellers, for surprise deforms Emma’s opponent when she effectively blocks the blow of his sword. She can’t help it: she laughs at his face, almost maniacally in hope it will throw him off even more.

“Maybe next time you’ll listen to me, lass.”

She forces herself not to look at Killian over her shoulder, not to lose her focus on her opponents. Still, she has another chuckle, more huff than laugh really, as she kicks one of the brigands in the knee. “Really? We’re going to do that now?”

“Now…” The word ends in a growl as he attacks one of the men, knocking him out in a matter of seconds. “… is as good a time as ever.”

She tumbles against him at the strength her opponent puts in his blows, and Killian blindly reaches for her elbow with his hook, throwing himself back into the fight when sure she is all right and not about to fall down. She does so too, already breathless and panting, muscles screaming in agony at the sudden effort she puts in each movement of her sword. Part of her wants to state her identity, for it would probably stop the brigands right away, but where would be the fun in that? The kingdom has been quiet for a while, surprisingly so, and they both miss the thrill of the fight, the soreness in their limbs.

“All I’m saying…” Killian goes on, “is that nothing would have happened if you had let me…”

“Wow, really dude? You’re going to use some sexist bullshit about women and directions?”

She uses the hilt of her sword to strike the man in the face, unsure if Killian’s low whistle is for her words or the impressive move. Perhaps both.

“It’s about _you_ and directions. May I remind you of the last time in…”

“Oh my god! It was only _once_!”

She knows what he is doing, what this banter is all about – Emma has always been more efficient in combat when driven by anger, and he effectively sparks the feeling in her to become the deadly warrior she can be at times. She almost wants to hate him for it – he stoops so low, using her flaws and mistakes against her like that – but he knows her so well that she can’t help but be amused by his behaviour.

Another strike of sword and they lean against each other’s back, laughing between pants at the men lying down at their feet. Killian lets go of his sword, which shamelessly falls on a man’s head, to hold her wrist and squeeze, his low chuckles turning into clear laughs as the adrenaline of the moment slowly vanishes.

“Let me pick the route next time, all right?”

She sighs, leaning her head against his shoulder, a grin on her lips. “ _Never_.”

 

…

 

“I swear to god if you lay a single finger on me I will rip your limbs apart so you become the doctor _and_ the monster.”

As far as she knows, Victor is far from the impressible guy, but the threat in her voice matches her words, eyes throwing dagger at him in cold fury, and he takes a step back, holding his hands up in surrender even with concern on his face.

“Emma, you’re bleeding. If I could only…”

“Don’t touch me!” she barks.

As if on cue, and pulling a move out of a blockbuster movie with the way he almost jumps above the hood of a car, Killian runs by her side, hand cupping her jaw in an instant. Relief floods through her – he is alive and unarmed, thanks any deity he believes in – and she offers him a weak smile, witty line dying on her lips with a grimace of pain. His eyes quickly travel from her face to her arm, blood pooling out of the open wound, assessing the rest of her body then only to find a few scratches and bruises.

“Fancy seeing you here, handsome,” she manages to whisper with a hollow laugh that hurts her ribs and scratches her throat.

His thumb draws circles on her cheek in what she guesses to be a comforting manner but that does nothing to ease the pain. “I leave you alone for five minutes…” he replies, the amused tone in his voice falling flat as it is laced with concern. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll take care of you.”

She only nods once, weakly, before leaning her head back against the wall she sits against. She can hear him asking for medical supplies, needle and painkillers, his threats matching hers when Victor tries to protest, to have him understand she needs _professional_ medical assistance. But Killian doesn’t listen, doesn’t budge until he is given what he asked for, and then he’s carrying her, arms under her back and knees.

He brings her to the flat, if the flowery scent is any indication, carefully placing her on her parents’ bed before leaving her, only to come back seconds later. “It’s going to burn,” he says, useless warning before he pours the alcohol on her wound, having her cry at the sharp pain. “Aye, I know. Always ruining my rum, lass.”

She manages a chuckle at the irony of the situation but everything else – cleaning the wound, her helping him as he sews it, then bandaging her arm – is a blur of dull pain and white spots in front of her eyes, until he is finally done. He brushes the sweaty strands of hair from her forehead, lovingly smiles at her.

“Are you okay?” she finally asks.

“Aye. Only a few scratches, nothing to worry about.” He keeps playing with her hair, tilts his head to the side. “Why didn’t you let the physician take care of you?”

She shakes her head, mind fuzzy and spinning. “I don’t trust them.”

She doesn’t need to add more for him to understand the true meaning behind her words – she doesn’t trust them with her body, let alone her soul, doesn’t think them worthy of seeing the Saviour in all her vulnerability. Something she saves for him. “The feeling is mutual, love.”

It leaves too many a rough scar on their skin, proof of battles well fought and cares well given in the shadows of a cabin, the intimacy of a bedroom. They wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

…

 

Emma squints her eyes uselessly, the darkness wrapping around her like a cold blanket, leaving her almost blind as she looks around her and _listens_ , for a soft footstep, a cracking branch, a hollow breath, anything. She feels Robin by her side, always, can almost hear his thoughts like he’s screaming them at her, thoughts of her folly and stubbornness, of broken hope and resignation. The only reason he remains silent is because of what she said earlier, how she snapped “You would do the same for Regina” as she perfectly knew it she would win the argument – she had, hence them standing in the middle of nowhere while everyone was back to the castle. Well, hence her standing, really, for Robin is by her side only out of loyalty and friendship for the pirate, only because they swore to protect each other’s lady in case of emergency, idiots that they are.

Still seconds stretch into minutes, minutes stretch into hours, without any indication that Killian’s party would come back soon – would come back at all. She doesn’t want to think about it, if only because she would feel it if something had happened to him. Deep down, in her bones, soul no longer able to reach for his, she would know.

The sky turns a dark shade of blue, lighter and lighter with pinks and oranges, Robin reckless by her side, when she finally hears it, soft but present – the sound of hooves on ground. The party comes closer, Killian not even waiting for them to stop before jumping off his horse and running toward her.

She crushes against his chest, almost painfully, lips bruising his mouth in desperation, grabbing his shoulder and wrapping her legs around his waist. She breathes him in, body melting against his, teeth marking him as hers by biting on his bottom lip. Her movements are feverish, body trembling as relief replaces fear in her veins, as her heart beats in rhythm with his.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” she asks between two kisses, biting down on his jaw. “Never split up. That’s the only rule.”

“I know, my love. I’m sorry.”

Apologies are barely enough, but explanations will come later. For know, all she wants is _Killian_. They makes it back to the castle, to their room, before she effectively rip his clothes off his body – there is some gruesome burn on his shoulder, but nothing they can’t take care of later – and pushes him to the bed. It’s rough and carnal, verging on desperate, teeth grazing and fingers bruising, whispering love letters and oaths in breathless moans with the thrill of cheating death, the relief of living to see yet another day.

 

…

 

She folds her arm around her neck, other hand pressing against her elbow as Killian pulls on the straps of her vest, double-checking each of his actions. The sound of Velcro is almost deafening in the silence of the war room, all eyes on them as his hand slightly taps her waist, making sure the vest doesn’t move. She knows what they look like at that moment, the captain helping his general prepare for battle, and she smiles slightly at that thought as she switches arms, Killian coming to her other side to do the same.

“All right there, Swan?” he asks, under his breath as to only be heard by her.

Emma doesn’t trust herself with words right now, so she only nods with a little ‘mh-hm’, stretching her arms back and forth several times to make sure the vest doesn’t limit her movements – the last thing she wants is for this damn thing to be a nuisance more than anything. All that under Killian’s careful watch, before he gives her a nod of approval of his own and takes her leather jacket to help her put it on, always the gentleman.

“Will you fasten the sword by my belt too?” she manages to ask, almost amused.

“You may act all unfazed, but you’re not fooling anyone, darling,” he replies, face closer to her, breath against her cheek. “You love when I take care of you.”

Even as she rolls her eyes, Emma can’t hide her smile, and he grins back with a wink that has her shaking her head – they are supposed to focus, to only think about the battle they’re about to throw themselves into, but she welcomes the teasing, the calm before the storm. Especially when he indeed grabs her sword, the giggle escaping her lips before she can stop it. Snow will probably scold her for that behaviour, but she can’t find it in herself to care right now, not when his arms are around her waist, fastening the belt carefully.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispers, to which he only replies by a falsely shocked face as he checks her vest one last time. He pats her belly, pouring more protectiveness in that gesture than she ever thought possible.

“I’ve never doubted Tink before but…”

“Stop worrying, would you? The vest is magic-proof, you know that. I’ll be fine. _We_ ’ll be fine.” He nods, zipping up her jacket easily for someone who only has one hand. “You keep Henry safe and I take care of the little one. Deal?”

“Aye.” He kisses her, quickly. “Your mother is staring.”

She doesn’t have to watch over his shoulder to know Killian is telling the truth – she can almost feel Snow’s eyes burning holes in them with each passing second, but knows it is more about her worrying for her daughter anything else. They all worry, rightfully so, about sending a pregnant Saviour on a battlefield. But Emma plays it off, forcing herself not to share their feelings, if only because she needs to be brave and strong for everybody else, as always.

“I’m sure she thinks we’re adorable right now.”

Killian chuckles, his grip tightening on her arm as he brushes off the half-lie easily. “Aye. Nothing says romantic like a couple getting ready for war.”

“I know, _right_?”

His laugh is loud this time, kissing her cheek affectionately. 


	24. i loved her first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Emma and David dance to 'I Loved Her First'

He rests his forehead against hers, his arm wrapped around her waist, their entwined fingers against his chest, slowly dancing to the soft music, lost in each other’s eyes. A small voice, which sounds a lot like Snow, tells her it makes for wonderful pictures, but she doesn’t find it in herself to care – not when he’s looking at her like _that_ , like she’s the sun and the moon and the stars, like love was a word invented for them. The music fades to the background as they whisper to each other, love letters on the tip of their tongues, smiles not carrying their usual smugness. It’s nice, almost entering _soppy_ territories, but Emma doesn’t care – not today of all days.

David’s warm hand on her shoulder startle them both out of their daydream, and only then does she realise the song is ended, another one starting. “May I?” he ask her, politely, even if they all know the next dance is theirs, father and daughter. So Killian simply nods and kisses her cheek before backing away, his warmth replaced by David’s and, even if it’s different, it’s still nice.

She wraps her hands around his neck, cheek pressed against his, and can almost hear his thoughts in the lingering silence between them. “I imagined that differently,” he finally says in a breathless laugh she can only share.

“Me _not_ marrying a pirate?”

“No,” he laughs. “Well, that was a surprise too, mind you, but…” His grip tightens around her waist, almost protectively. “I would have been older, for one. Definitely in our ballroom, definitely an orchestra instead of a DJ.”

She bites her bottom lip not to laugh. “Careful. Your _king_ is showing.”

“We had plans for you, you know. Ideas, ambitions…” A knot forms at the back of her throat for they never talked about it before – all those what ifs they keep silent, the lives they could have had, the memories they could have shared. She has made her peace with it some time ago, because their messed-up family is better than no family at all but still, sometimes, in the dark of the night, she wonders too. And now that David broached he subject, he seems unable to stop. “Snow and Ella found out they were pregnant at the same time – spent too many a tea party talking about babies and toys and clothes. It was a dreadful thing. Now your mother there, even if she’ll never say it out loud, I knew she was hoping for Ella’s child to be a boy.”

“So you _would_ have forced me into an arranged marriage,” she says, voice theatrically offended. Still, it is a strange thought, knowing she and little Alexandra could have been the same age, could have grown together. That she could have had other princesses as friends, with the optional tea parties and balls to attend – _weird_.

“Oh no! Snow fancied herself thinking you’d married a prince or a knight. But let’s be real, you would have ended infatuated with a kitchen boy or a squire.”

“Yup. Sounds like me.”

Their laughs mingle, his thumb warm on her skin as he draws circles just above the hem of her dress. She hides her face in his neck, breathes scents of leather and wool and freshly cut grass, the image of a blonde little girl waltzing with her feet on her father’s shoes dancing behind her eyelids. She sniffs to keep the tears forming at the corners of her eyes at bay, and he simply tightens his hold on her, as if to let her pretend she isn’t all that overwhelmed. It makes her smile, how well he understands her.

“Nice song”, she whispers against his skin after longs seconds of silence. It’s not something she’s heard before and, as far as she can tell, not especially one of the most popular songs when it comes to that kind of dance – it warms her heart, imagining David looking up on the Internet to find the perfect tune. Her grin at that thought turns into a light snort with the first line of the chorus, because it is all too deliberately chosen not to sound like some passive aggressive threat wrapped in a nice melody.

“Well I was looking for a song that says ‘you’re my mate but if you break her heart, I’ll cut your second hand myself’ but… strangely… no.”

She snorts again, a little louder this time. “There’s a clear lack in the music industry.”

He chuckles, low and deep, pressing a kiss to her cheek. His eyes are wet but so are hers, and they spend the end of the song just staring at each other in one of those silent conversations she only thought possible between him and her mother. She reads love and pride in his green eyes, but it’s the sadness beneath it that her heart clenching with all those lost, wasted years.

“I love you, darling.”

“Love you too, dad.” She breathes it like a secret, love and reverence in her voice, with the last note of the song, and it’s the first time she says it. The first time she uses his title while it’s not a matter of life and death. A single tear rolls down his cheek and he nods before letting go of her.

The music fades into yet another song and she look around for Killian, only to find him asking Snow for a dance, and she shares an eye roll and knowing smirk with her father. David offers her his hand with a little bow, and she can only offer him a second dance, even if this one is somewhat less emotional – not that they care, really.

“Speaking of life back there…” she asks after a while. “Did I have godparents?”

She doesn’t even know if the concept even existed in the Enchanted Forest but, with David’s sudden and loud laugh, she guesses it did. “Only one. Which, clearly, was supposed to be more than enough.”

He nods at someone behind her and, when she looks above her shoulder, it’s to Ruby and Victor dancing so closely not even a curse could separate them. And Emma can’t help but laugh – both at the unexpected couple and at her father’s working sinking in. “My godmother is a werewolf,” she says slowly, each word punctuated for emphasis, barely believing it.

“No need to sound so incredulous. Your husband is Captain Hook.”

She doesn’t know what makes her laugh louder: David’s attempt at sass or Killian’s immediate ‘That’s _Admiral_ Hook to you, mate’.


	25. kiss me back to life

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

She doesn’t turn around from her place by the large window, eyes lost in the horizon, not even when his voice breaks the silence of the room. He makes his way toward her, footsteps soft on the carpet, until he stands only feet away from her.

“You are avoiding me right now.”

There is no reproach in his voice as he keeps it light, almost amused, but she still hears the hurt behind his words, the concern – he still manages to make her feel guilty. Rightfully so. But it’s also the softness in his voice that has her finally turning around, skirt fanning around her ankles, arms folding against her chest in a vain attempt of an armour, as if it could protect her from his deep blue gaze.

“I’ve been busy,” she replies, the lie rolling easily on her tongue.

Killian stretches out his arms, looks around him at the royal library, barely hiding his smirk at the point he’s silently making. One book, along with a mug of cold tea, is discarded on a table, her wool jacket on a sofa – little proofs of the time she spent in the room, on her own, away from the company of her family. Away from him.

He is right, after all – it’s been a week and she keeps avoiding him. She had found excuses at first, busy rebuilding the castle and kingdom with her parents, busy finding a way to go back to Storybrooke with Regina, busy spending time with her son. All the good reasons not to seek the pirate’s company, to pretend he didn’t live in the castle too. Today, she was tired of finding excuses, only wanted to spend some time alone – hence, the library. She isn’t all that surprise that he ultimately found her.

“Emma,” he sighs, scratching his neck in what she came to associate with nervousness. “We need to talk about this.”

She shakes her head before turning back to the window, perfectly aware that she’s avoiding his gaze, if not his presence. “There is nothing to talk about.”

He huffs something between a sigh and a low chuckle, and she pictures him rolling his eyes, looking up in a silence plea for his gods to give him strength. It would make her smile, in any other circumstances.

“Darling, you kissed me back to life. That’s plenty to talk about.”

Hence the reason she isn’t smiling, closing her eyes instead only to see flashes of the scene behind her lids – the Witch going after him, casting a spell on him. Killian’s lifeless body as she hears herself screaming, an almost inhuman sound of desperation. Calling his name, not him moniker, as she fell on her knees next to him, tears burning her eyes and wetting her cheeks. The rush of light and magic as, in a desperate attempt, her lips crashed against him. His coughs and the way he choked on the air filling his lungs again, the look of surprise he threw at her, none of them quite believing it.

And then Emma had avoided him at all cost, like nothing had happened, like she didn’t know how important the whole thing is supposed to be.

“You’re my true love. So what? Big deal.”

He chuckles again, a little more lively this time, as he crosses the distance between them. His good hand finds her hip while his hook delicately works on her blond curls to grant him access to her bare shoulder. But she knows what he’s going to do before he actually does it and she escapes his ministrations in a jolt, putting as much distance between them as possible, her back to the cold window.

Hurt flashes in his eyes, so quickly she could have missed it, but he settles for a smile and a softness she is not used to coming from him – he is, she realises, trying to be as gentle as possible with her, and it’s not fair, how much he seems to care about her when all she does is pushing him away.

“It  _is_  a big deal, love. We cannot simply go on with our lives pretending it never happened.”

“Why can’t we?” She curses herself for how weak, how broken, her voice sounds.

“Because I’m in love with you!”

The words, even if soft, barely more than a whisper, crack in the air like a whip, startling them both. The feeling is not surprising, of course, it was made very clear with the kiss, but it is the first time one of them said it out loud without beating about the bush and it stuns them both for a second or two. Her eyes are wide with obvious fear, and she would take another step backwards if she weren’t already pressed against the window.

“I love you,” he repeats, words like a caress on his tongue. “And I quite believe you love me too, even if you are too stubborn a lass to admit it.”

She shakes her head and, bottom lip caught between her teeth, looks away from his too-knowing gaze. She can’t even bring herself to contradict him, the feelings too raw, too intense, for such a blatant lie. Denial is better, if not easier. But even if she doesn’t look at him in the eyes, even if she wants to keep him at arm’s length or even as far away as possible, she lets him come closer, lets him invade her personal space like it’s nobody’s business. He delicately, almost carefully, push the hair away from her face, tucks a strand behind her ear, fingers grazing against her cheek.

She feels herself trembling under his ministrations and under his gaze.

“Talk to me, Emma.”

She still won’t look at him, but she knows the least he deserves is an explanation. Killian has been nothing but tactful and gentle with her, ever since her memories came back to her in New York, making sure to tear her walls apart brick by brick along the way. He deserves an explanation.

He deserves so much more.

Probably more than she will ever be able to give.

“I won’t let a kiss decide my life for me,” she says finally, barely more than a whisper, and it feels like the Echo Cave all over again, like pouring her heart out in yet another confession she would have rather kept to herself.

But being the Saviour had led to that August-Neal conspiracy, and saving the whole town not only once but twice, and it had all been planned before she was even born. Needless to say she has had her share of prophecies and predictions for a lifetime – the last thing she needs is some stupid scheme to tell her who she is supposed to spend her life with.

Killian only shakes his head and, when their eyes finally meet again, there is this sympathetic look in his she wants to slap it out of his face. Now is one of those moments she’d like him not to understand her so much, if only to be able to hide her feelings, hide her darkest secrets. But they all lay there for him to see, open book that she is.

“It is not forcing us into anything,” he says, too calm, too gentle, like she’s a dear and he doesn’t want to scare her off. “The kiss would not have worked if the feelings were not already there, you know that. It was the consequence, not the cause.”

She wants to deny it yet again, but the words are stuck at the back of her throat. But, even if his fingers keep playing with her hair – a habit he picked during their ride back to Storybrooke and everyone, from her parents to the whole freaking town, pretend not to notice – he cocks his head to the side, as if focusing on her thoughts. He doesn’t ask, but she reads the question in his eyes, wrapped in concern wrapped in curiosity.

She sighs.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He tries to reply, but she immediately stops him by hold her hand. “No, please. Listen. I can’t do this. I can’t jump into this and pretend everything is fine. It’s not. I’ve been rejected so many times in my life, it kind of became the norm. And this – this  _thing_ , it’s like fate saying ‘here, have this one, he’ll never let you down’ and… And it’s too much. I’ll always be waiting for the second shoe to drop, for you to get bored or disappoint me or just turn out to be someone you’re not and… And I’ll be alone once again and…”

A sob breaks her voice, and only then does she notice the tears rolling freely down her cheeks. Killian’s thumb brushes them away before he takes her in his arms and kisses the top of her head. His warmth and hugs are foreign yet strangely familiar at the same time, like she was always supposed to be in his arms. She hides her face against his neck, breathes him in and, only then, she allows herself to relax.

“I am scared too, love.”

And he says that with such simplicity, summing up her inner turmoil in only five words, that she can only chuckles against his skin. His grip tightens around her waist, hand tangled in her hair and lips against her once again. If only for a second there, she pretends everything will be all right – she allows herself to hope for the happy ending Henry’s book describes so well.

“I’ll need time,” she whispers.

“It’s all right. We have all the time in the world.” 


	26. have i told you a lie

Silence falls on Storybrooke in a heartbeat, Emma’s hear buzzing loudly as she grips her sword and looks around her, waiting for the next blow – but all her eyes meet is empty space where the green witch was standing only seconds ago. Emma blinks, hard, not believing it quite yet. It’s over. It’s finally over.

“Ding dong, the bitch is dead,” David deadpans, and Emma snickers – both at the reference and at the unexpected slur in her father’s mouth.

She licks her chapped lips, tasting blood and sweat and dirt. She’s probably a mess, all crazy hair and crazy eyes, mud and monkey blood soaking her clothes, sticking to her skin – when did she last take a shower? Gosh she can’t even remember.

“Granny’s. My treat,” Regina says, receiving hums and one-word sentences as replies.

David wraps an arm around Emma’s shoulders, preventing her from collapsing as they make their way to the dinner. She falls in a booth, accepts the hot chocolate with a vague sign of the hand before folding her arms on the table and hiding her face. She wants to sleep, for at least two months – sleep and forget. Which is all kinds of ironical, considering…

Her head snaps up and she looks around her almost desperately. “Where’s he?” No answer. Then, louder, “Where’s Hook?” Still no answer, and she curses under her breath as she forces herself back on her feet. Thankfully, they all are in states of exhaustion not unlike hers so nobody notices her as she slips out of the dinner on uncertain feet and lurches her way to the docks – she’s had more glorious walks of shame than that, seriously.

She doesn’t even stand on ceremony, simply comes aboard and opens the hatch leading to his cabin, almost falling down the stairs. Unsurprisingly, he catches her, hand and hook on her waist and eyes widening at her sudden arrival. He breathes her name, a soft “Emma” like a prayer in his mouth, and his lips mesmerize her for long seconds – it’s the exhaustion, she thinks, that has her far less subtle than she’s comfortable with.

“You were there and then you weren’t.” Her voice is soft too, breaking on each word, her walls crashing down around her – she doesn’t care. “Don’t do that.”

Either he doesn’t know what to reply or knows there is nothing to say altogether, but in both cases he simply tightens his grip on her hip as he takes a step closer to her, the smell of him enveloping her in its warmth and familiarity, his breath hot and tickling on her cheek. His hand leaves her lip to find her jaw, thumb brushing her lip as he tilts her head for their eyes to meet. His are open and oh so blue, like the sea after a storm, curious and concerned and loving.

“What’s your name?”

 “Killian Jones.” Surely he may read the silent plea in her eyes, or perhaps he knows her well enough to understand what is going on in that troubled head of hers, because he doesn’t add a joke or a line about his moniker – just lies the truth for her to take.

“How old are you?”

“Three hundred years and some more. I lost count in Neverland.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“Dreamshade killed him.”

“Have you ever lied to me?”

“Aye. Twice.” He frowns, and then, “three times, actually. I am no blacksmith, nothing every happened between Tink and I…” He comes even closer, nose bumping against her, lips almost brushing. “I don’t think you are useless and I obviously am far from done with you.”

She doesn’t know when exactly she started shivering, but she can’t stop now, lips trembling with the sobs stuck at the back of her throat. He doesn’t kiss her, simply runs his forearm up and down hers, good hand never leaving her face – it is soothing, but not enough to calm the maelstrom of emotions within her, not enough to keep the tears at bay, their saltiness prickling her eyes as she bites on her bottom lip in a vain effort of getting a grip.

“Neal had been lying all along – who he was, where he came from. It was all _lies_ from the moment we met, all made up stories. And he left me when he learnt about me because he couldn’t deal with his daddy issues and…” A sob escapes her finally, even as she manages to turn it into a small hiccup. “And Graham didn’t even _know_ , he had _no clue_. He couldn’t remember the wolves and the forest and – he was a good man, but he was living a lie and… And Walsh. God, _Walsh_.”

Something flashes in Killian’s eyes – understanding – before he wraps his arms around her shoulders and she crashes against his chest. It’s like New York all over again, the hug a reassurance, a promise. She’s crumbling down and weakened and so bloody tired, so she welcomes the embrace like a blessing, tears finally falling and soaking his neck, his shirt.

“’S all right, love. I’ve got you. _I’ve got you_.”

Everything is somewhat of a blur after that – she’s certain she fell asleep against him before he even dragged her to his bed – and she wakes up the following morning with a headache and sense of emptiness that not even his fingers playing in her hair manage to sooth away. She struggles to find a comfortable position until settling for folding her arms on his chest, her head on top of it, and he smiles softly, a single knuckle brushing her cheek.

“My name is Killian Jones,” he says, words as soft as his touch. “My favourite colour is green and I lie to the she-wolf every time she asks me if I like her pies. I’m a morning person and a cat person, which is somewhat important according to your mother. And if there is a thing I am sure of, it’s that I don’t want to spend another day without you by my side. I _am_ real, love, as real and truthful as a pirate out of a book written for children can be.”

She stares at him for a really long time, wondering how he does it, how he always know exactly what to do and say for her to feel better – nobody’s ever done that before, nobody’s ever cared enough to even try. So she simply nods and smiles back, even if it doesn’t quite reach her eyes yet.

“Now I am going to kiss you. And no crass comment will be made about something else that is real and that you are going to feel in a few seconds.”

She snickers against his lips as they finally meet hers.


	27. pleading the belly

Her sword finds the hollow of his throat, the pressure enough to break the skin and draw blood, but her gaze doesn’t lower on the crimson drops. She keeps staring at him even as she shows her teeth in a silent growl, an untold threat, as he smirks back, the curve of his lips all too familiar. So are his eyes, so blue and intense, sparkling with the perfect mix of mischief and smugness – she knows those eyes, has drowned in them more than once. Those eyes on someone else’s face – same mouth, same jaw, same freaking hair – are unsettling, and she finds herself blinking, once, hard, before remembering it isn’t him. Same lineage, same blood running through their veins, but not _him_.

She puts more pressure on his throat, satisfied when the smirk turns into a grimace – in that moment, a pirate through and through.

“He’s never been into blondes,” the man still dares saying – he’s got some nerve, she’ll give him that. “Always brunettes, just like his mama. Really twisted, if you ask me. But then again…”

“Shut up,” she hisses. She’s never been a very patient woman, and her tolerance to his bullshit is running low – she won’t have him badmouthing Killian. He doesn’t deserve to speak about him, to even think about him, not after everything he’s done.

“Or what, darling?” The pet name in his mouth is like venom, he spits it like a curse. “Are you going to run me through with that pretty sword of yours? Come on, _Saviour_. You know it won’t work.”

She knows it won’t. Because after Neverland and Oz, Maleficent and Ogres, sword fights and talking animals and kisses bringing people back from the death, her life has now become some Pirates of the Caribbean level of bullshit – something she could have done without, thank you very much. One annoying pirate was more than enough, she didn’t need an army of zombie ones armed to the teeth and ready to take over her quiet little town – especially led by her Killian’s immortal father, apparently. What even is her life.

Her sword slips up his throat slowly, leaving a cut in its trail, as he raises his chin – she’s never been violent, not really, but the guy rubs her the wrong way, so she really can’t help it. He only grins.

“My son seems infatuated with you… Such a shame a pretty thing like you will find her demise on a pirate ship. Such a pity your fling is coming to an end.”

She hesitates, unsure for a second here of what she reads in his eyes, under the casual threat – it looks a lot like guilt, or maybe remorse, but she can’t let herself think such things. The guy is an uncaring psychopath who doesn’t give two shits about Killian. She can’t begin to think he may have a soft spot after all – can’t afford to lose the upper hand. He’s deadly and ruthless, and it’s all that matters.

But there is a sudden commotion on the deck, Emma and Blackbeard turning their head to find Killian and David there, sword in hand and daggers in their eyes. Foolish, the two of them, but Emma has never been so relieved to see them, even as she still holds the older pirate at point blank range – so much for her solo mission, though.

“All right there, Swan?” Killian casually asks – she’s probably the only one to hear the concern underlining his voice.

“Just getting to know the in-laws,” she replies on a too-cheery tone. “You know, the usual.”

Blackbeard frowns at her then, eyes falling to the hand not holding her sword. She can’t help but be smug and provocative about it, wriggling her fingers for the ring to sparkle in the sunset. The grin she offers him is feral.

“Yeah, it may be more than a fling, dude.”

Something shifts in the man’s gaze then, so clear and sudden that Emma’s skin prickles with fear. She knows that look – it used to be Captain Hook’s look when he was still focused on killing Gold, once upon a time in New York. She knows what the look mean. _Run or die_.

Oh hell no.

By the time he surges forward, she’s already anticipated his movements, so she doesn’t lose her balance as he pushes her away from him. Her sword comes up to block his, the strength of the blow reverbing through her arm, her whole body. Emma has never been more grateful for the lessons they finally gave her, knowing she wouldn’t have last five seconds otherwise – he’s taller and stronger, not to mention more skilled than she’ll ever be, but she manages to fight back anyway. The sounds of sword against sword soon fill the deck, Blackbeard’s men after David and Killian while she struggles not to be slayed by the man.

With a not so delicate shove, hip against hip, and coming out of nowhere, Killian pushes her aside to take her place. She would usually be upset, but knows better this time – it is his battle more than hers. So she focuses on moving around until she has her back to her father’s, protecting each other’s blind side. Not that it is that efficient, for the pirates still manage to have her move until, finally, she’s cornered against the mast. The wood bites her back as she leans against it, chest heavy with each breath she takes, sparing every blow sent at her.

She’s ultimately outnumbered and out-powered – it was meant to happen, seriously – as the guy towering above her flip his word in his hand with the firm idea to knock her out with the pommel.

“She’s with child!” Killian’s scream, as surprising as can be, at least has the merit to stop the other pirate. “Don’t touch her. She’s with child.”

And suddenly all those brawny guys stop in their tracks to stare at her – but she doesn’t care, because her eyes go wide as they settle on Killian. She remembers reading about famous pirates – both in her realm and his – and coming across the adventures of Anne Bonny soon enough, how they had delayed her execution because she was pregnant. It is as good an excuse as Killian could find in the heat of the moment but why did – is he – why would he –

Not that she has time to settle on a single thought, because Blackbeard gives up on his fight with his son to walk, almost run, toward her. He grabs her face, turning it left and right with a frown, before his eyes settle on her flat belly.

“Is he telling the truth, Saviour?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t have time to think, to second-guess her words as they tumble out of her mouth. “Four weeks. We learnt it yesterday.”

Blackbeard’s finger drum on her jaw, another habit she recognizes from Killian, who always does so when he’s deep in thoughts, before letting go of her. Emma stumbles on her feet, surprised that pirates do have such a strict code of conduct – and actually _follow_ it. He turns back to his son. “Get the hell out of my ship. Now. I won’t be that merciful next time.” And then he offers her one final sneer, “Take care, _mama_.”

You don’t have to tell David twice, for he quickly wraps an arm around her shoulder, ready to get out of this hellhole as fast as possible. Killian seems more resilient, jaw clenching, his mouth a tight line as he keeps staring at his father, and David has to grab his arm to force him to move – even then, his first steps are backwards, until he finally gives up for the time being. Emma knows another fight will break in a day or two, at least. It’s been like this for weeks.

The walk back home is oddly silent and, once they’re finally in the warm comfort of the loft, Emma heads for the bedroom without a word – she can feel the confused look Killian and David share, but doesn’t find it in herself to care. Not right now. She gets rid of her boots and strips down, throwing her dirty sweaty clothes in a corner of the room, before putting on sweatpants. She’s slipping on an oversized shirt when Killian finally sneaks into the room, leaning against the door.

“You’re upset,” he says softly. _Yeah, no shit, Sherlock_. “Is it because of what I did? I know you don’t like it when I try to protect you but surely…”

“It’s not that,” she cuts him off, finally turning around to look at him. His eyes are dark with concern and love, so beautiful and intense she immediately forgets to be angry. “How did you know?”

“I…” His eyes widen, trailing down her body until they settle _there_ , staring. “Didn’t. Emma…?”

“Because if you’re going to use that as an excuse, let me tell you…”

“Emma?”

“It’s not going to work. I’m not some fragile China doll. I’m not _sick_ , I’m just…”

“ _Emma!_ ”

She stops, mouth open and hands flying for emphasis, stops and notices his wide eyes and terrorised face, notices how he keeps staring at her belly like it holds all the wonders in the world but also a hundred unanswered questions. Her mouth snaps shut. _Fuck_.

“I was only using that rule to our advantage, I never thought…”

“Surprise?”

He pounces on her, mouth devouring her frantically – lips, jaw, neck, teasing her earlobe and licking her collarbone – as they fall in bed with breathless laughs. He keeps chuckling, deep and low, the sounds reverbing on her skin as he moves down her body, pulling up her shirt to kiss her still-flat belly a hundred times. It tickles, his beard scratching, butterflies settling inside her and tears filling her eyes as Killian kisses her and whispers to her skin – love letters and promises of never, ever, doing to his child what his father did and still does to him.

“I can’t believe you told that bastard first,” he finally tells her, looking up with yet another kiss.

“Technically you did.”

“ _Semantics_. I was lying, you were not.” He moves up her body, claiming her lips once more. “No more frolicking with pirates for you, by the way.”

“Yeah, I’d figured as much.”


	28. here to stay

Contrary to what she had expected, it doesn’t happen with a bang. Not that she’d expected anything, mind you – she’ll deny falling asleep each night with a “once everything is over…” because she clearly isn’t that type of woman. But still, she somewhat thought that, like everything in life when the pirate is involved, the beginning of their relationship would be sensational, unforgettable.

It doesn’t happen quite like that.

(And, yes, bringing him back to life with a true love’s kiss is sensational enough in itself, but it doesn’t quite mark the beginning of their relationship. Not just yet.)

He sneaks into her life the way he always did, with gentle smiles and soft words (and smirks and innuendos), his ever-presence intoxicating in the most wonderful ways. Storybrooke grows quiet again – at last – so Emma can go back to being the sheriff of a boring little town where the most significant event is the Puss stealing the seven-league boots. She hasn’t been at her desk since breaking the curse, and David was helpful, he really was, but it doesn’t stop the paperwork from piling up everywhere. It takes her an entire week to take care of it, and she even has to wear her glasses again not to damage her already weak eyes – something, she learns, she takes after her grandpa Leopold. Good to know.

Hook comes by every morning at ten exactly, coffee and pastries in hand – the caffeine is always a blessing, seriously. They talk for a bit, about his struggles with technology or what is happening in town at the moment, which isn’t much, before he settles at one of the empty desks and lets her go back to her work. He spends the rest of the morning there, reading – books Belle gives him to work on his general knowledge. The Three Musketeers and Harry Potter and Jane Austen and Byron and a hundred more. She almost chokes on her own saliva when he starts A Song of Ice and Fire, because he remains silent for a long while before whispering ‘ _oh gods, with her brother_ ’ quickly followed by ‘ _no, Bran_ ’ only to throw the third book across the room a few days later. He never finishes them – yeah, she knows the feeling.

He reads in the morning and follows her to Granny’s during the lunch break, which is always an adventure in itself since both Granny _and_ Ruby now use the pirate as their guinea pig. He tastes all the meals they offer him, sometimes just because he needs to eat, sometimes because they need an unbiased opinion (Granny is certain, a hundred per cent sure, that people only pretend to like her pies), sometimes to experiment with his taste buds. Ruby has to take a ten-minute break when he tries Coca Cola for the first time and almost chokes on his own tongue in the process. It’s mean, but even Emma has to bite the inside of her cheek not to laugh – it is somewhat entertaining, though, so she never asks the Lucas women to stop.

He always disappear shorty after lunch, probably to spend time on the Jolly, only to be back at her side when it’s time to head home and help Henry with his homework and Snow with the cooking. Which, more often than not, ends in Henry doing his homework alone, Emma and Snow cooking, and Killian playing with baby James in a corner of the room – adorable cooing sounds going straight to Emma’s ovaries.

They settle into that schedule easily. Coffee – reading – lunch – work – family time. Repeat every day until Lord Farquaad comes to claim their land or something.

She gets used to it. Gets used to the pirate sleeping on their couch in the cold of winter, used to his stupid grin when she grumbles a ‘good morning’, eyelids still heavy with sleep. And because it becomes their daily routine, because it’s easy and almost boring, her walls are not as strong as they used to be. She half expects him to take advantage of that and strike – he never does. Simply smiles and buys her coffee and read, like he’s perfectly content with this life. Which, perhaps, he is. She isn’t sure about anything anymore, these days.

She kisses him on New Year’s Eve, grabbing him by the collar, lips crashing against his when the clock strikes midnight, and he keeps grinning like a fool for the rest of the night. But even if she won’t say it is a one-time thing, he may sense that she isn’t ready for it to be a regular occurrence either, not quite yet, because he doesn’t push her in another kiss the following morning. Still, it stirs something in them and, even if Emma has never been the cuddling type, she finds herself touching him more often than not – a squeeze of the arm, a nudge of the shoulder, fingers brushing the hair away from his forehead. He responds in equal measures, fingers toying with her hair and fingers dancing on her hand and foot against hers under the table at Granny’s. Until simple touches turn into hugs, pecks on the cheek into kisses, casual smiles into loving ones.

But it all happens so slowly that Emma barely notices it at first. Or maybe she simply accepts things as they are, accepts the slow burn of their relationship – accepts and welcomes it.

She’s doing the dishes, soft music in the background, when her mother slides by her side, baby James on her hip. She smiles that knowing smile of her, and Emma frowns.

“So he’s here to stay?” she simply asks, voice barely more than a whisper, and nods at something above her daughter’s shoulder.

Killian and Henry are bent over the table, pointing at several maps and chatting with the occasional low chuckle – Emma’s heart swells at the scene, at how well they get along. Henry has been begging her for weeks to spend a whole week with Killian on the Jolly during the summer until she accepted, and they’re now planning the trip, much to David’s sulking jealousy.

(She remembers a time when it was only Mary Margaret and her in that too big loft that doesn’t seem that big now that it’s full of life and fairytale characters. Remembers a time when _home_ was some foreign concept to her. How far she’s gone since.)

She finds herself smiling as she replies, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess he is.”


	29. another day at the office

Emma has never been comfortable in the spotlight – too many years as an orphan crawling in the corners, hiding in the shadows, tiny and silent as a mouse. She’s never actively craved recognition, never wanted to be known and renowned. Still, becoming the sheriff and then the Savior, she had somewhat gotten used to being one of the public figures of Storybrooke – people greeting her in the morning, smiling at her in the street, going to her for help and guidance. So not having anyone caring about them as she and Henry settle at one of the tables at Granny’s? Yes, definitely unsettling.

(Though she has to admit David’s authority as a king is impressive, for he managed to spread the word overnight and to have everyone and their cousin pretend they don’t know who she and her son are. Truly impressive.)

The only proofs that things are not what they seem to be are the way Ruby keeps beaming behind the counter, like a child at Christmas, and the knowing smile Granny gives her when serving their hot chocolates. Henry is thankfully oblivious to the both of them – nor does he know his grandmother sits only two booths away from him or that his other mother is drinking her coffee at the counter, and Emma tries not to squirm on her chair because this situation is already complicated and it’s _only day one_.

“I’ll be right back,” she tells him before almost running away to the restroom.

She leans against the sink, long heavy breaths as she tries not to lose her mind, tries to find a grip on reality. She’s the Savior, it’s her job, she can do it. Just another day at the office. _She’s yet to fail_. But the heaviness in her chest doesn’t leave, her ears keep buzzing, and she has to fight back the prickling tears – this is too much, this is all too much. How is she supposed to deal with all that shit when she can’t even handle the sadness in her family’s eyes when they look at Henry?

She glances at herself in the mirror – purple bags under puffy eyes – before rubbing the back of her hand against her nose with a nod to herself. _Get a grip. You can do this_. It’s not the best of pep talks, but it’ll have to be enough for now. And if not, her official pep talker will help her as soon as he arrives to the diner anyway. Another nod for good measure before she leaves the restroom and goes back to the diner.

Only to be stopped in her tracks by a small figure, basically coming out of nowhere. She looks down, he looks up and, for a couple of seconds, they only stare at each other with wide eyes – both too surprised by their almost collision to do anything else. He’s young, barely more than five if she had to guess, with a dark mope of hair and holding, oh the _irony_ , a stuffed monkey tightly to his chest. Emma has never really been a kid person – Henry is different, because Henry is _hers_ – but she has to admit this one is particularly adorable, big brown eyes shining golden in the morning sun.

He somewhat reminds her of Henry at that age, innocent and cute and full of hopes and dreams, and her heart aches at that thought. It aches with the weight of fake memories, because she never actually saw a five-year-old Henry, the images nothing more than a blurry dream, guilt and hurt coming back to haunt her.

She almost loses it once more when a perfectly manicured hand wraps itself around the child’s shoulder and she looks up to find Regina glaring at her, as in a silent challenge to steal one more kid away from her. Emma’s eyes travel from the brunette to the boy several times, before she finds herself mumbling a weak “I’ve been away that long?” that does nothing to ease the tension.

“Actually, this one is mine,” a blond man says, lifting up the boy who then hides his face in his father’s neck. The man smiles kindly at her, holding up his free hand for her to shake. “Robin of Locksley. Nice to finally meet you. Mulan speaks highly of you.”

Her eyebrows shoots up instantly – because of Mulan’s praises when they didn’t part in the best of terms, or because he’s the only one not to play their games of pretend, she isn’t sure. She glances carefully at his hand before taking it in a short squeeze that ends with a high-pitched giggle. “Robin Hood,” she says, and wonders at which point it’ll stop being weird. Just as weird as Regina and Robin, the way they seem to attract each other like magnets, bodies reacting to each of the other’s movements – Emma wants to burst into another fit of hysterical giggles because _this can’t be happening_. “You’re not a fox” are the next words out of her mouth, and her eyes widen as Regina lets out a sarcastic chuckle.

As if by magic ( _ah ah_ ), Hook appears by her side in a second, nodding to the backdoor she came from only a minute earlier. “Off we go, love,” he tells her softly and, when she doesn’t budge, puts his hand on her elbow to force her to move.

She loses it the moment the door closes behind them, alone in the empty hallway. Loud painful breaths coming out of her mouth as she crouches down and hides her face between her knees. She feels, more than hear or see, Hook kneeling down in front of her, his hand barely brushing her arm as if unsure touching her is allowed, as if not knowing what to do – and that, in itself, is a first.

“Breathe, Swan. We don’t want you having a panic attack now.”

She laughs, cold and desperate, as she finally looks up at him, tears now falling freely. She looks and he looks back, eyes big and open and caring – it is too much, it is all too much, and she grabs the lapel of his coat, pulling him to her in a not-so-graceful manner. He stumbles on his feet and lands between her legs but she doesn’t care, simply focuses on hiding her face in his neck and taking long deep breaths, the smell of leather and salt tickling her nose. He doesn’t move at first but then, slowly, delicately, he wraps his arms around her, pulls her to him more tightly.

“The kid,” she whispers weakly, words ghosting against his skin.

She doesn’t need to say more – he understands anyway. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s going to be all right. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.” He tightens his hold on her to emphasis his words, fingers around the leather of her jacket, and for a second there she pretends he’s right.


	30. nothing but a pirate

It is late, the diner about to close, yet he remains sitting in his booth, eyes travelling between the bottom of his empty cup of coffee and the couple by the counter. The mermaid keeps running her hand in her prince’s hair, bracelet shinning in the unnatural light of the room, grinning every time the man leans down to kiss her. Public display of affection at its finest, yet Killian cannot look away – _he did that, he made that happen_. It stirs something in him, something that feels warm and a lot like pride.

So engrossed in that sight – and this is verging on gross indeed – that he almost misses Emma sliding in the booth opposite him, almost startled by the flash of blonde hair. He smiles at her as he takes in the purple under her eyes and the way she bites on her bottom lip. Surely a whole day of working with Regina took its toll on her, especially with the added problem of Charming’s wounded pride, and he wonders why she is here with him and not in her bed – not that he’d complain, mind you, but still.

“Here’s a funny thing,” she says after no amount of staring into his eyes. “Something I forgot to ask Henry yesterday, because he was almost asleep on his feet. Anyway, he keeps going on and on about how awesome spending time with you is, so I asked him what he thought of your ship. Imagine my face when he told me, and I quote, ‘yeah, it’s okay I guess, for a _fishing boat_ ’.”

Even if he perfectly knows where this is going – it is but the third time she mentioned it, after all – Killian still tries to deflect it with a simple and fairly neutral, “How interesting.”

But Emma, clever lass that she is, just folded her arms on the table to lean closer to him as she frowns and looks right into his eyes. Surely to see the lie in them when she asks her next question. “Where’s the Jolly Roger, Hook?”

For once, just this once, he fancies himself lying to her, even if she wouldn’t buy it. Some grand tale of losing her when portal-travelling, or maybe even telling she is simply in Emma’s dear New York, waiting for her captain. But he will not so blatantly lie to Emma, especially with the wound of his loss still open in his heart.

“She’s gone,” is all he offers her, though, because he knows her not to be ready for the real story – not that he would give it to her anyway.

“Really?” Her tone is surprised, but almost mocking, and whatever may follow will probably not please him. “How are you going to travel the seven seas being your swashbuckler self if…”

The hand he slams on the table effectively stops her, and he props himself on his feet with barely more than a look for her. It’s so very late and he’s so very tired of all… _this_ , so calling it a night now sounds like a good, safe idea – the Gods know what he would say otherwise, something he would regret immediately.

But Emma dropping it is just wishful thinking and, with all the stubbornness she can muster, she follows him outside as she calls his name once, twice. Only when she grabs his hooked arm and forces him to stop does he look back at her. She keeps frowning, almost offended by his attitude, and he just wants to laugh because _she just has no idea_.

“Where are you going?” she asks in that demanding tone all royals come to master.

“But to the docks, darling, where all _pirates_ are supposed to be. It is who I am, after all, nothing but a pirate.”

He wants to turn around and walk away, but her iron grip on his arm keeps him in place so he settles for glaring at her instead. She seems lost and confused, for it is the first time her ever lost his patience with her, far from the loving encouraging self he usually is around her. But to hell with that, really.

“Where is the ship?”

He bites his tongue, almost hard enough to draw blood, but it’s so very late and he’s _so very tired_ and the words tumble out of his mouth whether he likes it or not. “She’s gone, all right? The mermaid had a way of crossing realms, and she only accepted to help me if I would help saving her prince. Which I did. And I lost the Jolly in the process. Now that your curiosity is sated, may I?”

But she still doesn’t let go – of course she doesn’t – and simply looks at him, her frown turning into a more puzzled pout as she takes in the information he all but spat at her face. Not his finest moment, clearly. Still, Emma surprises him by taking a step forward, closer, as she looks away then back at his face. She’s spooked, clearly, and it will only be a matter of seconds, of a few words, before she runs away – _again_.

“You did all that… for me?”

The laugh is hollow and dry on his lips as he runs his hand through his hair and down his face. But he simply shrugs, almost guiltily, and is rewarded with widening green eyes and pink lips gaping at him.

“But… why?” she asks after long seconds.

He wants to laugh against at the irony of such a question. He could throw himself in front of a dragon and she still wouldn’t understand, blinded by her denial, all those walls of hers preventing her heart from seeing the truth. But he only reduces the distance between them, closer, always closer, until her breath, warm on his cheek, catches in her throat as he looks at her straight in the eyes.

The truth she wants, the truth she will get.

“Because I couldn’t go back to my old life, no matter how hard I tried. You heroes were too great an influence, and I jumped at the mermaid’s cry for help without even a second thought. All I could think was you and how bloody disappointed you would be if I didn’t go all knight in shining armour with the mermaid. So, no, I don’t want to sail, no anymore, I want to stay in this bloody town with you even if it’s the last thing I do. See? I no longer have a ship and I no longer have the attitude, so _stop calling me a pirate_.”

He didn’t answer her question per se, but he didn’t need to for her to slip away from him anyway – it is in that look in her eyes, that look he knows all to well for seeing it every time he opens his heart to her. And indeed, Emma takes a step back, and then another, out of his grasp. (As if she ever was within his grasp to begin with.)

She walks away from him, and he’s so done and tired. She keeps doing that, keeps walking away, and he’s too much of an idiot, too deep in love to accept his fate – he will still be here in the morning, helping her, supporting her, like the bloody fool he is.

She walks away but he cannot watch, not this time, so he does the same with the hope than an hour or two by the docks, watching the waves lapping against the boats, will indeed help. Eyes down and hunched shoulders, he misses the dull sound of footsteps, barely reacts to his arm being grabbed again, not until she turns him around, not until she stands on her tiptoes, lips warm and soft against his. She whispers - _Killian, Killian, Killian_ – and it sounds like a promise, like _not now, not yet, soon_ , and it is fine with him.

He’s always been a patient man, after all.


	31. the facts were these

She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge there. He focuses on that – how the flour is so white and powdery, so unlike the brownish texture he’s used to – rather than Emma, the red of her lips, the darkness of her eyes. She kneads the dough so furiously he’s actually worried for the food, but he recognizes that look, has worn it enough, to know not to say anything. So he just watches as she takes it out on the food – better than him, hell, better than Zelena.

She wanted the truth, the truth she now has, and it’s no wonder she is upset when they’ve all been played like puppets.

She huffs loudly as she rubs her cheek, a new smudge of flour appearing here to keep the first one company, and glares at him for a second before going back to her torturing the dough. He’d smile at the scene – _anger issue much, Swan?_ – if his heart wasn’t too busy breaking, over and over again. Instead, he leans forward on the kitchen counter with a sigh of his own.

“What, pray tell, are you trying to achieve?”

She glares at him again and grits her teeth before answering, “Stress baking.” She all but punches the dough before she adds, “I used to do that in New York. It calms my nerves. Well, at least it’s supposed to but since…”

The sentence ends in a groan, but he understands anyway – since there are not real memories. The thought alone is a punch to his guts, to his heart, a painful reminder that this is his fault too. Had he not been selfish, had he not decided to find her, she’s be happy with her son now, no fake memory to trouble her mind, no pirate to ruin her life. Lips pressed into a thin line, he stands up and walks around the counter until he’s next to her, close enough to feel the warmth of her on his skin.

She sighs and lets go for her large bowl rather abruptly, turns around to face him as she runs a hand through her hair, flour finding its way in the golden white of her mane. Her eyes, so green and so wide, flash with anger and desperation as she steps closer to him, red around the corners with tears she proudly refuses to shed.

“I want to kiss you,” she whispers, and that alone should be enough for him to chase down the bloody witch and kill her with his bare hand. “I want the possibility to kiss you but I can’t. She took my free will away from me.”

“I know.” His hand cups her cheek, barely able to relish in the way she leans against it as he brushes the flour away. “I’m sorry.”

Her breath is sweet and warm on his lips as he allows himself, if only for a second, to drown in the green of her eyes, in the abyss of her feelings. He wants to laugh, or perhaps cry, for it is everything he’s ever hoped for and more – Emma sharing his feelings, Emma letting go of her past, Emma considering a future with him instead of New York. Everything laying bare in front of him yet out of his grasp, for her Wickedness decided happy endings were no longer possible. He wants to laugh or perhaps cry, but mostly he wants to kiss her, body tingling with her proximity, soul reaching for hers in the quietness of the kitchen.

They lean forwards until their noses brush and he breathes her in and, in only for a second, he fancies himself taking her right there against the kitchen counter – surely he can manage to do so without his lips brushing her skin. But she steps back, so suddenly it feels like the room turned cold, and he watches in confusion as she rummages through the drawers.

“Come on, love. We were having a moment!”

He says it half-heartedly, but is still rewarded by the slightest of smiles. It turns into a smirk as she comes back to him, strange transparent paper in her hands. Before he has time to wonder about that, has time to think about anything really, she holds up the paper between them and –

And then her lips are pressed against his, the paper not enough to erase their softness, their warmth or even how his whole body lightens up to the touch. Her lips are on his, or almost, and he wraps an arm around her waist to pull her closer, fingers lost in the softness of her hair, mind lost with the softness of her lips.

He does the mistake of breathing her in, only to choke on the paper as it invades his mouth, and Emma jolts back with a sudden laugh. He falsely glares at her, for only a second before he softens at the way she bites on her lower lip, eyes dancing with laughter and something he wants to call love.

“That will have to do for now.”

“Aye.” He pulls her to him, nose against her neck, careful with his mouth. “For now.”


	32. quite the contrary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (for people also following/reading my multichapters: I'm sorry, the updates will come next week)

The clearing they’d found for the night is a few minutes away from the main road, far enough not to be seen, close enough to hear anyone coming. There’s a fire pit surrounded by a few logs serving as seats, burnt ambers still there – Emma wonders if they missed the Merry Men by only a few hours, before she remembers Robin’s group probably doesn’t live in this part of the forest anyway.

Killian has built the fire before losing himself in the woods once more, leaving her with the task of lighting it.

Which she is doing.

Sitting on one of the logs, she intensely stares at the tinder, brows pinched into a frown as she focuses. Smell, colour, even the pain of a burn, everything is worth a shot as she searches deep inside herself – uselessly, of course, but Emma Swan isn’t one to give up without a fight.

Killian’s footsteps barely make a sound on the tall grass, but his sigh is loud as he catches up on what she is doing – or, at least, attempting to – as he drops the firewood on the floor. It is a matter of seconds before he kneels in front of the fire pit.

“Hey!” she protests.

Uselessly, since he soon manages to light the whole thing anyway. It’s then that she catches the glimpse of silvery metal, and it would almost have her snicker – Killian ‘not sentimental’ Jones, with his cutlass and robe and Zippo – if the memory of Neal were not a painful reminder still. Rather, she settles for glaring at the pirate.

“All you will manage is hurting your brains.”

She really snickers this time, the sound bitter and sarcastic as it fills the silence between them. Killian only raises an eyebrow, his lack of a proper reaction annoying her more than anything, before he goes back to taking care of the fire. It allows her a few unwelcomed minutes with her own thoughts – the warmth of the fire is a relief, at least, her cape not nearly enough to protect her from the bite of the evening wind.

“Gold said something,” she says at last, barely more than a whisper. “About magic being an inherent part of me. Maybe I can, I don’t know, grow it back or something.”

And if her cheeks are burning all of a sudden, she blames it on the fire. It is stupid, she knows, but the saying is true – you never miss something until it’s gone. She misses it, indeed, misses the buzzing in her veins and tinkles in her fingers, that feeling deep in her bones. Even when she couldn’t properly identify it, even when she barely noticed it to begin with, it was there, magic waiting to be used, and she somewhat feels like she misses a part of herself now. But her magic was born of her parents’ love, not learnt, so surely it must still be here, somewhere – denial is a beautiful place, this time of the year.

She looks up to Killian’s eyes on her, and is surprised not to see pity in them – instead, she reads sorrow and sadness, as if he is _grieving_ that lose. Which, obviously, is ridiculous.

He settles on the log to her right, rummaging through his bag until he takes out a handful of fine cords. She watches, fascinated, as he wraps each one of them around his hook, fingers skilfully knotting them into little nooses. It stirs something in her, something that feels a lot like guilt, at how easily he does that with a single hand – her crushing remark of the previous day still clear on her mind.

But it is his behaviour that unsettles her the most. She has never known him to be so silent, so deep in his own thoughts – not even in that Neverland hellhole, when he always had a quip on the tip of his tongue, always an innuendo ready to be thrown at her. Here he is quiet, painfully so, in that broody way of his as he keeps avoiding her eyes and speaking in as little words as possible.

It’s annoying.

But mostly worrisome.

“You okay?”

Her voice is so low and soft, and he takes so much time to reply, that she doesn’t even believe he’s heard her at first. But, after a minute or so, he raises his head, looking at her through his eyelashes.

“Aye.”

Emma doesn’t need her lie detector to spot that one – it’s all in the bitterness of his voice and stiff set of his jaw. Everything about him screams of dropping the subject, but she finds herself curious anyway, or maybe worried. She can’t tell.

“You sure? Because you look – different.”

The laugh he barks is even bitterer, and she shivers at the sound – shivers at how _Hook_ he sounds in that moment. He shakes his head, a twisted self-deprecated grin on his lips, as he kicks a rock that flies into the fire. He seems to hesitate, mouth opening and closing uselessly before he looks at her again.

“I won’t woo you just to stroke your ego, Swan.” The grin he flashes her is the definition of hurt. “A man knows when he’s no longer wanted, and you made your opinion on the subject very clear.”

She can only blink at him for a while – at the bluntness of his voice, the dull tone of his voice, resigned, exhausted almost. _She did that to him_. She and her wall and insecurities did that to him and, yes, this is definitely guilt wrapping around her heart and squeezing until it hurts. She blinks once more before turning her head, no longer able to look at him, no longer able to deal with the emotions on his face, eyes lost in the dancing flames of the campfire.

“You should have let me drown.”

Emma forces herself not to look away from the fire, not trusting her face right now, aware that it would reveal her inner turmoil. Killian value her magic as more important than his own life, values everything she is more than himself, and she has no idea what to do with that information.

Not that he gives her the space to reply anyway, quickly standing up with his nooses in hand, muttering something about finding food for diner and coming back later before losing himself in the forest.

When she blinks, tears cling to her eyelashes.

She isn’t sure how long he is gone – it could be mere minutes, it could be hours, but time has no importance when she is that deep in her own thoughts, in her own mind. She can’t stop thinking, about him, about them – everything he’s done and said, every smile and every touch, every stretching second of his lips against hers, his finger in her hair and breath to her skin.

_You should have let me drown._

As if she could let him die, as if she could – her heart stutters, defence mechanisms back up in a second, refusing to finish that thread of thought. But her own words, whispered in desperation, come back to haunt her anyway – _come back to me_ – and she sighs. She doesn’t need that, not now of all time, but her mind seems not to agree on the subject.

She’s startled, both physically and out of her thoughts, when he comes back, two rabbits tied by the ears dandling from his hook and caring something in his hand. He comes close enough to hand it to her, and her lips curve up into the tiniest of smiles at the raspberries in his palm – he obviously, and very delicately, picked them for her even when being upset at her, and Emma still doesn’t know what to do of it, what to do of the pang in her heart and the warmth in her chest.

“Thanks,” she says as the berries fall in her open hands.

He only replies with a stiff nod before grabbing the knife in his bag and skinning the rabbit – she watches in morbid fascination, pops a raspberry in her mouth every so often, their juice sweet and delicious on her tongue. It doesn’t take long before both rabbits are on a stick and cooking, the smell having her mouth water in anticipation.

But still, when Killian sits, this time it is next to her, and all craving for food are forgotten when he is so close to her, the warmth of the fire weak compared to the one radiating from his body. She feels her cheeks growing a nice shade of pink once more, and yet she can’t look away, eyes trailing on the angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, breath caught in her throat when he looks at her. She drowns in the sea of his eyes, but mostly she lets sadness overtake her at how lost he seems – she knows that look, it’s the same one she’s been wearing since the day she was found on the side of the road, the one that screams orphan, lost one, _unloved_. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Quite the contrary, darling. You’re right to have higher standards.” There is sadness in the tug of his lips, love at the corner of his eyes. “Nobody is worthy of you. Least of all me.”

“My point exactly.”

They stare at each other for a long time, eyes soft and tentative, questioning almost, until he looks away and take the rabbits away from the fire. He gives one to her, even as grease stains her fingers and pants – she’ll have to change anyway, and sooner rather than later, if she wants to blend in the Renaissance Faire vibe that is the Enchanted Forest.

“Don’t worry,” he says at last, “we’ll find a way back to your land, and you will be able to put this all behind in that dreadful city of yours.”

But when she thinks of _her land_ , it is not New York she sees – it is a little costal town, Henry with a book in his hands, the little brother she barely had time to meet. It is her parents, and a shiny badge on her hip, and a pirate by her side.


	33. what fairytales are made of

“This isn’t your fault.”

She looks up at him as he speaks the words softly, barely more than a whisper to her ear. It makes her shiver, the closeness, the intimacy, even as her eyes widen in surprise at how simple yet spot on the sentence is. _Open book_ , she thinks, and it almost sounds bittersweet.

A quick glance back to the scene happening a few feet away – the bandits still holding to each other, as if afraid letting go will have Marian disappear again – and her heart aches for _family_ , for _home_. Killian is right, of course he is, and she can’t find in herself to feel guilty when a child is able to hug his mother once more. She knows that feeling all too well.

From the corner of her eye, she spots Regina wrapping a protective arm around Henry’s shoulders – the surge of jealousy and _mine_ too strong in her chest to be ignored. Still Henry catches her attention from across the room, and all he needs is a frown and a vague flick of the wrist for her to understand his silent question. She nods, once, somewhat stiffly, and it doesn’t take long after that for the Mills to make a quiet departure.

“She’s pissed at me.”

“She’s upset at the world. Don’t fret, love, she’ll come around.”

Emma turns her head once more when he tugs on a golden lock of hair – obviously begging for her attention, stupid pirate – only to drown in his eyes for a second there. So big and so blue and _knowing_ , like he can reach into her soul easily. (Sometimes, she believes he really does.)

“One less orphan.”

Scratch that. He really does reach into her soul, and everything she is and does lays bare to him. It should frighten her – it doesn’t. Instead her lips finally curve into the tiniest of smiles, because he knows her all too well and knows exactly what arguments to use and –

Gosh, what did she ever do to deserve a man like that?

“One less orphan,” she agrees softly, heart beating painfully against her chest when Killian grins and leans forward to kiss her.

He makes it look so easy, the lingering touches and stolen kisses, like they’ve done it all their lives, and it almost has her forget they’re not in private but in a corner of the diner for everyone to see. She has never been one for public displays of affection – or even _private_ display of affection, come to think about it – but she doesn’t mind now. Like it was always meant to be, like everything in her life led to that moment, that person. Once again, she waits for the fear to burn through her veins, for her body to just _run_ , but she doesn’t, leans in his embrace instead, smiles at the way he beams like he is the luckiest man alive.

( _She_ feels like the luckiest woman alive because this, this is what fairytales are made of.)

Killian’s fingers tangle in her hair and, as she presses her forehead to the crook of his neck – the warmth of him soothing, the smell of him spicy and comforting – she relishes in how familiar that feels and –

She looks up, frowning, and almost snorts at the way he immediately frowns back at her. But things are dawning on her (finally), and she just keeps frowning as her eyes take in his face, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his bottom lip, travelling down until they settle on his hand, still playing with that one strand of hair. It is so new but it also isn’t – pictures of tears brushed way from her cheeks, of a hand at the small of her back, a hook in her hair – and her frown deepens.

“How long exactly have we been in a relationship without me noticing?”

His barked laugh is enough to have several people glancing their way, but Emma doesn’t find it in herself to care, not when he captures her lips in yet another kiss, teeth grazing her bottom lip and sending jolts of warmth and desire straight to her core. He grins like the idiot he is, almost jumping up and down like a kid on a sugar rush at Christmas.

“I’d say a week, give or take.”

A week – that’s how long she’s been back in Storybrooke.

It is mortifying, to say the least, and she groans as she hides her face against his neck once more, his laugh rumbling through his chest and hot against her hair.

“It’s alright, love. I knew you’d come around eventually.”

Emma shakes her head even as she leans back, hand coming up to cup his face, thumb brushing the scar of his cheek. She feels hers growing red at how embarrassing the whole thing is in retrospective – how far in denial she was about Storybrooke, her family, him, _everything_. Killian replies by biting his bottom lip adorably, eyes shining with mirth, and she’s suddenly glad she doesn’t have to share a room with Henry tonight.

“Next time, just – let me know, or something.”

He nods as his grip tightens on her hair, the way he tugs on it affectionate – how he manages to do that, she’ll probably never know. “You’ll be the first in line, love.”

Whatever she was planning to reply, maybe something along the lines of _good to know_ , dies in a soft moan at the back of her throat as he kisses her once more and, yes, this is definitely what fairytales are made of.


	34. dream

She tries to fight sleeplessness, turning and turning in the small bed, sheets entangled in her legs, unable to ignore the red glow of the alarm clock’s digit. They taunt her – the 4:38 almost laughing at her in the darkness – as she groans and squints her eyes shut. She doesn’t have anything to do in the morning, the luxury of sleeping in awaiting her, and yet sleep won’t come no matter how hard she tries.

She is actually about to give up and go downstairs, to find a book to read by the fire or something, when a loud knock on the door startles her, a small yelp escaping her lips as her heart starts racing in her chest. A glimpse at the alarm clock – 4:53, what the _hell_ – before she grabs her gun lying on the bedside table, just in case. She paddles to the door, finger on the trigger, sighing deeply as her other hand wrap around the doorknob.

But whatever she was expecting, whatever crazy scenario her brain was already coming up with, dies as her eyes land on Killian. A very bare-chested Killian, may she adds, eyes widening a bit when she looks down to find him barefoot, only wearing his leather pants – she tries not to stare at his torso, at the many scars glowing white in the moonlight, at the tattoo on his chest. But then her eyes travel up, and her heart clenches because he looks like a rightful _wreck_.

“Killian?”

His eyes seem lost and unfocused even as they settle on her face, looking, _searching_ – what for, she has no idea. His fingers are shaking when he raises them to her face, barely more than a featherlike touch to her jaw before he recoils as if burnt by her skin. Emma frowns, especially with the silent ‘apologies’ falling from his lips – as if afraid she will be angry, as if not allowed –

It dawns on her the moment he steps back, and so she follows and some more, invading his personal place the way he always does with hers. Fear flashes in his eyes, and her heart clenches, hurts, _breaks_.

“Hey, hey, I’m here, it’s okay.”

She tries not to take offence in the way he flinches when she raises a hand to cup his face, eyes clouded by fear and the depth of his own thoughts. “This isn’t a dream?”

It barely sounds like a question and tears burn at the corner of her eyes as she answers in a broken whisper, “It really isn’t.”

The wind is knocked out of her lungs just then as he forcefully wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her to him. He’s never really towered over her but Emma suddenly feels small ad vulnerable against the strength of his hug, against everything he pours in that embrace. She finds herself wrapping her arms around him, somewhat awkwardly, and he shivers when the cold metal of her gun meets the burning skin of his back.

Her free hand runs up and down his back as she does her best to ignore how her fingers don’t meet smooth skin, dead skin of scars rough against her palm the proof of many years of hardship. His sigh in the crook of her neck, heavy and broken, is soon followed by the dampness of his tears and she tightens her hold on his, anchors him against her in the darkness of Granny’s hallway.

She mutters shallow apologies – nothing she says or does will ever make up for the way she played with his heart for way too long, denied both their feelings for way longer – even as he showers her shoulder with kisses. He needs this, needs the physical proof, needs to know this is real. _They_ are real.

So she moves backwards slowly, never letting go of him, only stopping to kick the door shut, until they fall on the bed in a tangle of limbs. It takes some time for his ragged sobs to turn into deep sleep-induced breaths, hot against her collarbone. She plays with the hair at the nape of his neck with the need to sooth, protect, _love_ , until she follows him into slumber.

(And when he wakes up the next morning, chin propped up on her breast, the sheepish smile he offers her looks a lot like an apology for his display of weakness. Her finger follows the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips, the rings under his eyes, as to sooth away his worries. They are broken things, the two of them, unloved and uncared-for. But at least they will build each other back, brick by brick, and it’s all that matters.)


	35. be kind, aim for my heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musketeers AU! loosely based on a show loosely based on a book loosely based on history so, like, this is 0% historically accurate.

It’s the worst kept secret of the Louvre – of all of Paris, if we’re quite honest. The court is well-trained in the arts of turning the head and closing the eyes, and so excels in ignoring the rapid footsteps and tinkling laughs echoing in the larges hallways of the royal palace. The art of gossiping is one they master too, unfortunately, and so courtesans leans on each other’s shoulder to whisper and giggle about this secret that isn’t one, that mystery they all deciphered such a long time ago, when the child was but a babe.

It’s the worst kept secret of the Louvre, but it still comes with its lot of questions.

 

…

 

She meets him at the annual tournament, some grand event in the Jardin des Tuileries for the soldiers to show their talents and spare among themselves – but, mostly, for the court to fawn over the Queen’s Musketeers, if only because they need the patronage of wealthy women. And for them to open their thighs willingly, too, Emma isn’t foolish enough to convince herself otherwise.

Still, it is a pleasant activity as any, especially in the warm April sun – clouds have been most dreadful sight all winter long and spring brings with it light and singing birds. Emma is able to don herself with thinner, softer dresses, and her mood is all the brighter as she sits next to Duchesse Alexandra, her friend and confident.

The Queen opens the tournament with an eloquent speech, and all her musketeers bow to her in respect. That is when Emma catches sight of him for the first time – black mop of hair half-hidden by his hat, eyes a more vibrant blue that thus of his cape.

She has heard of him of course – everyone has – but she is still curious to see if her father’s praises actually do the man justice. The tales are colourful and almost unbelievable, as always when told by the Prince Consort, ones of bravery as the man saved him from mercenaries on a diplomatic mission to England and King George. Prince David told her all about the situation and how the man came out of nowhere to save him even when outnumbered. An orphan, he says, nothing but a rusty sword by his side and a stubborn will to save and survive.

The prince has always been fond of stray dogs and broken things, it was only logical for him to bring the man back with him to Paris and make him one of the musketeers, the royal and prestigious guard of the Queen – for surely he deserves the title more than any other man.

The stakes are high for him now, for surely everyone waits for him to live up to the tales and expectations forced on his shoulders. Emma pities him, almost, for such a pressure.

Pity him she doesn’t, though, when the tournament begins and he proves himself to be an accomplished swordsman and fighter. The musket he doesn’t master quite yet, but Emma has been around the musketeers long enough to see potential in him even as, in the end, Robin has the upper hand over him and win the tournament (along with some two thousand livres).

The tournament is followed by a banquet in the gardens, and soon Emma finds herself laughing and gossiping with Alexandra over the most delicious pastries. It is easy and simple, almost giving the illusion of a mundane afternoon between friends, and Emma relishes in not having to talk to everyone and their cousin or to pretend to appreciate being courted by some pompous count. She only enjoys herself with her friend and fine food, and she knows she could get use to it all too easily.

Alexandra is in the middle of a sentence about that man from Milan who crafts the most adorable shoes, when her mouth goes slack as her eyes drift over Emma’s left shoulder. The princess can only frown at that odd behaviour, until her friend points a finger at the object of her surprise.

It is he, of course, standing straight, hand on the pommel of his sword, as he talks with Captain Lancelot. Emma takes her time to admire him now that he is closer – body lean and well-built, eyes shining in the afternoon light, shadow on his cheeks. But it is his youth that startles Emma most. He is but a boy, barely old enough to be a man – she gives him one, maybe two years over herself. How this young man managed to save her father, she does not know, but it gives him an air of mystery that fits his dark, handsome features and that does nothing to calm the warmth spreading in her belly.

“Go talk to him,” Alexandra says with a light shove on her shoulder.

_This isn’t proper_ , Emma wants to reply, until she remembers that the crown princess can be above property if she wishes so – and that he would never dare come to her, anyway, with the rather large gap between their ranks. Another push in the right direction, along with an eager nod from Alexandra, finally sets her into motion, and she clashes her hands in front of her before starting to walk toward him.

She feels the blush creeping up her cheeks, which is ridiculous – she has talked with suitors for years now, surely one musketeer cannot be all that frightening. Still, her breath catches in her throat when his eyes land on her, blue and deep like the ocean, before opening wide as he bends in an awkward bow to her. Captain Lancelot does so too with a smile, before excusing himself and leaving the two of them alone.

“It is a pleasure finally making your acquaintance,” she says, proud in the evenness of her voice. “My father speaks highly of you.”

“It is I who is honoured, your highness.” He seems to catch himself then, and takes off his hat in another bow. “Killian Jones, at you service.”

“It is not that French a name, Monsieur,” she notes. Neither is his accent, voice fumbling with the words a proof French may not be his mother tongue, but she cannot manage to guess his country of origin. England seems like the logical answer, but she isn’t quite sure.

“I’m not that French a man,” is his reply, before his eyes widen once more at his own cockiness and lack of etiquette, cheeks a pretty shade of pink.

Emma can only snicker at that – it is so refreshing, in a way, someone not caring about the protocol when talking to her. She gives him her more sincere smile, one he mirrors sheepishly even as his eyes dart away with his obvious uneasiness at the situation he finds himself in – not many encounters with royalty, she gathers.

“Do you like Paris?”

“Yes, your people has been most welcoming so far,” he replies carefully, before adding, “And the food isn’t bad either.”

She can only laugh, hand grasping his forearm in the process – very strong forearm, may she add – as she pulls him back to the banquet. “Oh you must have a bite of those éclairs, they are delightful!”

He follows her all too eagerly.

(“This is trouble,” the Queen says to her husband, eyes never leaving their daughter.

She has never seen Emma quite like that before, laughing so openly at a man’s antics and flirting shamelessly with him – hell, she almost launched a diplomatic incident not two years ago by rejecting the Spanish dauphin’s advances. She looks so young and careful now, laughing at something the musketeer explains to her with wide hand gestures.

“She’s still young, let her have her fun.”

Her husband, the optimistic romantic he’s always been.

But Emma won’t be young forever – old enough to wed already – and the Queen _knows_. All it takes her is one look to know there is something different about that man and her daughter’s reactions to him. Trouble indeed.)

 

…

 

The official invitation arrives in the early days of summer by the hand of a royal messenger, even if the rumour had reached Paris well before that.

“Eric and Ariel are to wed!” the Queen announces cheerful at dinner that night.

Sadly enough the wedding is happening in a month time, which is also when the German Ambassador will arrive in Paris to negotiate new treaties. It is soon decide that Emma, as the crown princess and future ruler, will go to Denmark and represent her family and country at the wedding.

She replies with a nod and a smile, trying her best to school her features and not to erupt into laughter in front of her parents. It is a long journey to Denmark, and surely she will stay over at the royal palace for at least a week before coming back home. She can only bite her bottom lip to hide her grin at the prospect of so many days away from her own court and nobility, travelling through Europe and spending the night in random inns. It is exciting to say the least.

“Do you wish Alexandra to come with you?”

“Yes, of course. And Grace too, if I can.”

The royal hatter’s daughter has been her handmaiden for half a decade now, and Emma doesn’t trust anyone with her hair the way she does Grace – the girl has expert fingers, and isn’t a bad company either. Emma would rather have her by her side than some random Danish girl she doesn’t know.

The Queen approves and goes back to her dinner, leaving Emma to nibble on her lips for a few seconds as she gathers the courage to ask her next question. She opens her mouth, hesitates, sighs, and nibbles some more before her father raises an eyebrow at her antics.

“Will some of your musketeers escort me to Denmark?”

Her mother, bless her soul, reads between the lines and offers her a secret smile. “Which ones do you have in mind?”

 

…

 

It is thus decided that four musketeers will travel at all times with the royal carriage, and Emma isn’t surprise to see Robin, as the tournament winner, accompanying them. What comes as a surprise, though, is Killian Jones looking proud as a peacock from the top of his horse as he waits for the party to move – no doubt her father had his saying on the matter, because her mother would have never trusted such a young guard with keeping Emma safe otherwise. He offers her a smirk, eyes never leaving her as she makes her way to the carriage, and it is hard to focus on her footsteps under such an intense gaze.

Still, the first day of their journey is quiet and she spends her time between reading and playing cards with Alexandra – when she is not napping or simply looking out the window of her carriage. French countryside is beautiful this time of the year, and so different from Paris and its too many buildings. It reminds her of those summers when she was a girl, spent at Fontainebleau with Grand-Mère Ruth, horse-riding and running in the nearby forest and forgetting about the urban, busy life of Paris.

The sun is still high in the sky by the time they reach Count Maurice’s manor, but it is their first stop nonetheless since the man is offering them shelter for the night. They are presented to their rooms and offered a warm bath, and Emma changes into a simpler gown for the evening – so far from court, she has no one to impress with heavy fabrics and intricate embroideries – as she lets her hair loose from its complex bun.

The hallways are eerily empty of servants and housemaids when she leaves her bedroom, fingers brushing the larges tapestries on the walls. Lady Belle’s departure had its toll on the household, quite obviously – at least, it’s the only reason Emma finds to explain such a dead house. Wed to a Scottish aristocrat and shipped to that faraway land like some cargo, Belle’s fate is one that has Emma shiver in horror. The lord is said to be a cruel man with an even crueller mind, and if he is anything like his son, Emma barely dares doubting the rumours. The thought of Lord Neal is enough to have her wince, and she forces herself to think of something else as she finds her way outside the manor – this is vacations for her, and she won’t let the mistakes of her youth ruin that moment.

She finds her royal guards in the courtyard, out of their usual uniform and busy shooting empty bottles with their musket. Robin’s laugh bouncing against the manor’s walls has her wonder if said bottles were full when they began, but she soon forgets that thought when she notices Killian among them. His shirt is wide open, giving her quite the view on his chest as he stretches out his arm to aim at the makeshift target.

“I hope you are not planning to waste all our bullets.”

She startles them all, and the bullet misses the target as it lodges itself into a door. She hides a smile at the look he sends her then, halfway between annoyed and amused – he’s been improving through the months, she knows, and surely would have loved to impress the princess with his skills.

“Don’t worry, Your Highness,” Robin replies. “Your safety is our priority, we wouldn’t dare compromising it.”

She smiles and nods for them to continue, but it is rather obvious that she disturbed their moment. They excuse themselves and leave, surely for a well-deserved supper, and soon she finds herself only facing Killian. He seems insure as to follow his companions or not, but thinks against it and comes closer to her instead as he tucks his musketeer back in his belt. She eyes it for a moment before looking up at him with a smile.

“Can I try?”

His look of bewilderment has her smile, before he manages to stutter, “You want to shoot?”

Emma is certain it will come with a speech about royals and how they are not supposed to partake is such activities – especially the fairest sex – as he seems like the kind of man to believe such things, to believe a princess should just look and smell pretty, and she shrugs impishly in reply, waiting for such words to come out of his mouth. But they don’t, he simply squints his eyes at her for a second or two before shrugging too and, the last thing she knows, Emma has his musket in her hand while a grin tugs up her lips.

But she has never done this in her life – the sword she masters, for begging her father to teach her when she was still a little girl – and she knows how ridiculous she might be as she tries to aim for one of the bottles still standing not that far from them. Killian’s laugh is rich, startling her in its closeness to her ear, and suddenly he is here, right behind her.

“No quite like that, love,” he whispers to her ear as his hand finds her arm. A trail of goosebumps follows his hand as it caresses her bare arm before settling over hers on the weapon, his other gripping her hip even so slightly. He pulls her into the right position, mirroring his from a few minutes prior, and she fails to ignore the way his thumb draws circle on the hem of her corset, just above her skirts. She swallows hard, loudly even.

“Just like that. Now focus on the target and stop breathing. And when you’re ready…”

Her breath hitches in her throat as she aims for the bottle. It takes a few seconds to adjust her aim and then she squeezes the trigger. The bullet doesn’t hit the bottle, but grazes it, and it is enough to it to fall on the ground and break. Emma lets out a squeak of delight, as she turns around to face Killian with a proud grin. He laughs, and it sounds half-surprised – she didn’t think she would succeed either.

“Careful there, You Highness. What would we poor musketeers do if you can defend yourself?”

“You would have to find a job you are actually good at.”

He huffs at her tongue-in-cheek and only when his hot breath caresses her skin does she realise how close he is stand, barely a few inches keeping her away from him. His training exercises clearly must not cover court etiquette, or perhaps he just elected to ignore them when it comes to her. Her eyes dart between his eyes and his lips, so full and pink and _tempting_ , as she thinks how easy it would be to just lean and capture them in a kiss. Killian stops breathing for a second, and she has no doubt he must be thinking the same for he leans forward even so slightly, nose brushing against hers.

But it is too much too soon, and she feels herself suddenly suffocating as thoughts of Belle and Neal and royal court and _never again_ invade her brain – and she’s a princess, a blue-blooded lady, how _dares_ he. She takes a step back, resisting the urge to pushes him away with both her hands on his chest, as far as possible.

He must read the distraught look on her face for he stammers an apology, looking down as his cheek burn red. Good, she thinks, let him be ashamed of his behaviour, let him be ashamed of himself.

“You can leave now,” she says, her voice cold and flat, haughty even.

He does so, head low and not daring to look back at her as he goes back inside. Emma ignores the pull in her stomach that begs for her to do something, follow him, talk to him. But he’s just a musketeer and she’s a princess.

They both need to remember their place.

 

…

 

The following two days are uneventful to say the least, quite in the same fashion – travelling all day long, only stopping for a quick lunch break and then later for the night. They soon find themselves out of France, and so they have to find lodging for the night in inns that doesn’t look half bad. She shares her room with both Alexandra and Grace, while the men fill another and guard her door all through the night.

It is the fourth day when Robin taps lightly on her carriage’s window. “Should we stop for lunch now, Your Highness?”

Emma needs to stretch her legs, sore from sitting for so long, so she agrees and soon they find themselves resting in an open field, sharing a light meal of bread, ham and fruits while the horses happily have a lunch of their own on the tall grass.

Emma nibbles on a fresh apple, trying her best to ignore the weight of Killian’s eyes on her. He hasn’t dare speaking to her since the incident in Lord Maurice’s courtyard, something she is relieved about, but he just won’t stop staring at her anyway and it is finally getting on her nerves – especially with the way he looks away every time she stares back, the picture of innocence. Part of her wants to tell him to stop being a child and just talk to her, but another part is simply glad that he is keeping his distance as requested and, in the end, Emma doesn’t know what to think anymore. She feels like a little girl, infatuated with her royal knights in shining armour, and she doesn’t like it in the least for how badly it ended the last time she felt that way.

He’s a musketeer, she reasons, it shouldn’t matter. But it does matter, and everyone is startling to notice how foul her mood has become, none of them daring to say a word about it – not even Alexandra, and God knows how she usually likes talking about such things. They all let her be, and that special treatment makes it even worse somehow, even if she can’t explain why.

She just hopes to make it to King Eric’s castle soon enough, at this point, waiting for the distractions than a royal court is certain to provide.

She is deep in conversation with Alexandra about one thing or another, halfway through their lunch, when the faint sound of hooves in the distance has them sharing a look. When Emma raises her head, it’s to meet Robin’s eyes, and the puzzled expression on his face is enough confirmation for her – she didn’t imagine the horses and, so far off in the countryside, it may not be a good omen. Robin starts giving the other men orders and, in a matter of minutes, they’re abandoning their lunch and going back to the carriage.

But Emma barely has time to make it to their horses that a shout startles her as riders appear around a grove of trees. Everything happens so fast then, but it unfolds slowly in front of her eyes – Robin yelling orders, Alexandra and Grace jumping on horses with two of the musketeers, a hand suddenly grabbing her arm as someone pulls her up and has her scream.

Killian holds her close to her chest as he spurs his horse forward, and she can only hold on to his jacket, knuckle white around the fabric, not to lose balance.

“You two go east, we’re going north with the princess,” Robin tells the other two musketeers.

Already, Killian’s horse breaks into a gallop, the speed making her screech as she hides her face in the crook of his neck out of instinct. She feels more than hears his chuckle as he tightens his hold on her, which would earn him a slap, were the situation different. But as of right now, she is too busy not falling to care about such things, so she only scowls and promises herself to give him an earful later.

A look above his shoulder informs her that their assailants are following close – a tad too close to her liking.

“Can you see their coat of arms?” Killian asks her when he notices what she is doing. “Do you know who they answer to?”

She squints to see more clearly despite the midday sun dazzling her. “I’m not quite sure. Dressed all in black. They’re either mercenaries or – or Regina’s.”

Killian grumbles something that is neither French nor English but very much sounds like a curse either way, then spurs his horse some more for it to go faster. Mercenaries would almost be good news – they were bought in the first place, you only need a little more money to be done with it. Regina’s men, on the other hand…

But it would make no sense, Emma tries to reason, not after so many years of peace and silence. Why now? Why here? She cannot tell, but there is one thing Emma knows – only death can stop Regina’s black guards. And something tells her it is death they are after too.

“Here!” Robin yells all of a sudden.

Both horses go to the left in one movement and it takes them less than a minute to reach a building that would look like barely more than a big farm if it weren’t for its steeple – a convent. Emma sighs in relief even as Killian jumps and forces her to do so too while Robin pounds on the door until a nun opens it to them.

“The future queen of France,” is all he tells the woman as he points to Emma’s face.

Emma isn’t sure if the nun understands – she somewhat lost track of their position the previous day and doesn’t know if they’re still on lands where French is spoken – but all it takes is one look at her before they are welcomed inside the convent, the nun closing off the door behind them.

“Your Highness, are you well?” Robin asks her.

Only then does she realise that she is shivering with fear, holding on to Killian’s arm not to fall under her own weight, yet she still nods, even weakly, ignoring the concern on both their faces. “I’m all right. A little shaken is all.”

They are not fooled, but polite enough not to point out her lie. “Let’s get you inside then.”

 

…

 

The nuns are serving her tea, bitter and sugarless, and talking to her in a patois she doesn’t understand, by the time Killian come back from inspecting the convent, soon followed by Robin from another part of the building. They both look grim enough for her to guess the situation is not getting any better, and she sighs into her cup before burning her tongue on the boiling drink.

“They are five of them outside the gates. We will stay here for the night and pray they get bored come tomorrow.”

She nods to Robin and hopes that Alexandra and Grace made it to a safe place too – somewhat, she doubts the men followed them anyway.

 

…

 

They make do, especially once Killian finds an old deck of cards in a cupboard – she spends the afternoon playing with one while the other does rounds, and it may not be the most exciting thing in the world but at least it keeps their minds busy. The nuns offer them a light dinner before showing Emma her room for the night, barely more than a bed and a table in the corner, but more than enough. Robin goes stand guard by the main entrance of the convent while Killian is to stand by her room all night long, and Emma tries as hard as she might not to find it awkward – it still is.

It is well into the night, moon high in the sky casting silver shadows in her room, when Emma decides that no amount of kicking and turning will help her fall asleep. She slips into a robe and out of her room, only to find Killian sitting on the floor next to her door and polishing his musket. He looks up to her, eyes wide and somewhat vibrant in the moonlight, a small grin curving up his lips at the sight of her.

(He doesn’t wear the leather of his uniform, only a thin dark shirt, and he almost looks naked like that – she feels her cheeks burning at the sight. But also vulnerable somehow, stripped out of his amour like that.)

“Giving up so soon?” he asks teasingly.

She only rolls her eyes even as she sits down next to him, and they settle in a companionable silence while he takes care of his weapon and she watches him do. It is peaceful, less awkward than the last twenty-four hours, and she soon finds herself wondering how things got so tensed to begin with. Until she remembers Sir Maurice’s courtyard, of course, and a heaviness settles in her chest.

“What’s your story?” she asks after a few minutes, once the silence becomes unbearable.

His fingers still on the musket for barely more than a second before going back to their cleaning and polishing, and she would have missed that reaction had she not been staring down at his movements.

“What do you mean?”

His voice is even but she still manages to hear the uncertainty lacing his words – it is strange, how they seemingly understand each other so well, read each other as if they’ve been acquainted for years instead of merely weeks. It would unsettle her, even, if it didn’t feel so right – _that_ unsettles her, surely, like they found each other after drifting away for so long. It should scare her. It doesn’t.

“You must have an interesting story to share. All the good musketeers do.” When he fails to answer, only raises an eyebrow at her, she goes on. “Robin, for example. Everyone knows he was born in the _cour des miracles_ and that he bought his letter patents by stealing from other noblemen. And he is the only musketeer to be wed and a father. Hence, what’s your story?”

There are a few more moments of silence where she can hear him pondering on the words, before he begins tentatively. “My mother died when I was a lad. My father joined a pirate ship a few years later so I found passage to England. I lived on the streets until I saved your lord father’s life, is all. Nothing a lady like you wants to hear about.”

It saddens her, the obvious belittlement of his own character when she knows how brave and strong he is – his story saddens her too, because no child should grow up in such an environment. Her own mother gives money to the poor and to the orphanages, but Emma knows is it never enough and that many a child lives on the streets and sleeps under the bridges. That thought alone brings shivers down her spine at how unfair life can be sometimes.

“What about you, darling?” She is so deep in her thoughts that he manages to startle her, and she doesn’t find it in herself to reprimand him for the pet name – why bother, when he does as he please not matter what. “What happened for a princess to be afraid of love?”

It is highly inappropriate, but then again everything always is with him, but there is something about the convent, about the peaceful and silence setting, the night wrapping them in a soft cocoon, that has her willing to talk. It is madness, she shouldn’t trust a man, let alone a man who answers to her parents, but she knows Killian Jones would never go behind her back. She indeed trusts him, and that may be the most frightening thought of the night.

“His name was Neal”, she finds herself saying. And now that she has started, the words pour out of her mouth, unable to stop them. “He came to Paris on a diplomatic mission with his lord father, and he wooed me, like they always do. Still, there was something different about him. Perhaps in the way he talked, perhaps in the fact he seemed to care about me more than he did my title. I was so in love and he was from a good family so I begged and begged my parents until they agreed upon the marriage. The betrothal was to be announced a week later so we would meet in secret and that is how I –” Her voice breaks on the words, fingers playing with the hem of her dress before she goes on with a sigh. “I heard him talking with his father. Plotting. It became obvious rather quickly what they were planning to do once we would be married. He broke my heart that day, broke my trust, and almost created a conflict between our countries. He played me and I was too naively in love to see it coming.”

“You – how old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Oh, Emma…”

He says her name so softly, so lovingly, that word alone like a prayer on his lips, that she forgets how inappropriate it is – everything about them sharing this moment, about pouring her heart to him in the middle of the night, is inappropriate anyway. But she loses her manners and her etiquette when he raises a hand to her face, knuckles brushing her jaw before his fingers start playing with a strand of her hair. She is but mesmerized by the motion, unable to think, to breathe for a few seconds there.

“You were but a child. This isn’t your fault –”

“But it is! Don’t you see? I’m a princess. I _am_ the princess. How am I supposed to rule a whole country when I can’t even be trusted with my own heart?”

His fingers running through her hair effectively silence her in their soothing manner, and she can only stare into his eyes as he offers her a smile. “You are kind and clever, and the braver woman I’ve ever met. Don’t doubt yourself that way, you will make a perfect queen.”

She blushes yet is unable to look away – his eyes matches his words in their sincerity and she wants to believe him, she truly does, wants to share this vision of her he seems to have, this woman he thinks her to be.

“He was a rightful idiot for not seeing what was in front of him,” he adds, breath hot and tickling on her skin. “Any man would be fortunate to be loved by you.”

She gasps, the sound loud in the silence of the convent, breath hitching in her throat when he brushes his nose against hers in a tender motion. He does it once more and it feels like a wordless question – giving her the choice, the possibility to back away if she wishes. But she doesn’t, she needs this, and so she leans forward to erase the last inches between them, lips finding his tentatively.

She feels very much like the inexperienced princess she is, awkward in the way her mouth moves against his, but Killian doesn’t seem to mind – or, at least, he doesn’t show it – as he lets her explore him, humming in appreciation. She’s a quick learner and soon his hold on her hip tightens as tongues and teeth come in play, a low groan catching at the back of his throat, warmth spreading in her belly.

She barely has time to break away, sucking in a well-deserved gulp of air, that his hand grabs the back of her head and he pulls her into another needy kiss. She hears herself moan in his mouth, hears the groan he offers her as an answer, the metallic sound of his musket falling down his lap before she replaces it, straddling Killian as her hands get lost in his hair, as they both get lost in the moment.

It may be sheer minutes or it may be hours when they finally break away, panting and breathless, staring at each other with wide eyes. He looks like a frightened animal, and it makes him younger somehow, but she can’t ignore how the blue of is eyes is swallowed by the black, lust dancing with the faint light of a candle. A shiver runs down her spine at that look on him – utterly wrecked, perfectly wanting – as she finds herself breathless, wordless.

“Don’t overthink this,” he says her, barely more than a whisper.

Emma nods, finds her way on her feet, nods once more as she straightens her clothes while he follows her up. She feels herself blushing under his gaze, bashful and self-conscious, even as she grabs his hand and pulls him into her room. He seems surprised but still closes the door behind them, before focusing back on her.

The robe slips down her shoulders, falling down in a heap of fabric, soon followed by the gown the nuns gave her for the night, leaving her bare to him. She immediately crosses her legs by the ankles, arm shooting up in front of her breasts to hide her modesty, but Killian shakes his head and delicately moves her arm away, eyes never leaving her face.

“Don’t shy away from me, love. You have nothing to fear.”

She has plenty to fear, but his voice sooth her worries, hands brushing her sides and leaving goosebumps in their path as he kisses her once more, soft and slow. He smiles against her lips and walks her backwards until they fall on the bed in a tangle of limbs – he doesn’t wait a second, mouth hot on her neck, hands exploring her body in delicate motions, and that alone is enough to set a fire in her, warmth pooling between her legs and heart beating to the sound of her desire. Apprehension soon leaves place for excitement as he bites on her collarbone, laughs at her small gasp.

He talks too, branding words against her skin in a language unknown to her. But even so it sounds like poesy to her ears, like prayers and oaths and declarations – it sounds like _love_ , the wording lost on her but the meaning clear as bell.

Everything is soon lost on her, everything but _him_ – the way he moves above her, against her, his breathing hot and broken, his hands touching, caressing, teasing. It is so unlike the way she heard her maids talk – tales of hurt and blood and rushed coupling. Killian takes his time, thorough in his love making, careful to her every need, her every whispered demand, her every blissful moan, until she finds herself tumbling over the edge. She sees white and stars and fire, head falling back on the pillow as he groans against her neck, covering her with his full body weight – she feels sated and a bit sore in the legs, rightfully used and loved, as she finally understands why such an act has half the court whispering and giggling.

“Beautiful,” he tells her, kissing her jaw. “Stunning.” Kiss. “Exquisite.” Kiss. “Perfect.”

And she finds herself giggling too, hand finding anchor in his mope of hair once more as he drops kisses on her cheeks and mouth. “Your French got better.”

“Aye.” He kisses the tip of her nose, smirks at her laugh. “The language of love.”

She’s too tired to roll her eyes so she simply pushes him off her, and he falls by her side with a chuckle of his own, not wasting a second before pulling her to his chest, arms firmly finding their place around her waist, face against the crook of her neck. He smiles against her skin and kisses her one last time – who would have thought the great musketeer, the man who saved her father, would be one for cuddles.

“Sleep, my highness. You need rest.”

Emma isn’t sure if the wrong title is on purpose or just lost in translation – she hopes for the former – but her brain is soon clouded by sleep anyway so she doesn’t dwell on it any further. His breathing, deep and warm against her neck, is the last thing she registers before giving it to slumber at last.

 

…

 

(Robin finds them in the morning, because of course he does, entangled in each other and oblivious to the sun already high in the sky.

“Are you out of your Irish mind?”)

(They leave soon after with a silent agreement never to talk about it.)

 

…

 

It’s the worst kept secret of the Louvre. They call him l’ _Enfant de Paris_ – the Parisian child, this orphan living in the castle, this child who doesn’t belongs to anyone.

Everyone knows who the mother is, of course, even if people are skilled at pretending otherwise, at pretending the child isn’t even here. Nothing but a laughing, loud ghost in the hallways of the palace, followed everywhere by a breathless nurse as he keeps running and hides under the skirts of giggling maids. Hiding him from the court is a talent in itself, but a shame too – this sweet little face, those beautiful blue eyes and soft blond hair would have quite the success among noble ladies, were the situation different.

Still, in the dead of night, everything silent and everyone asleep, the child slips under his mother’s covers, nestles against her chest. His little breaths are hot against her neck, and Emma kisses the top of his head, wraps her arms around his small body.

He asks, sometimes, shy and hesitant, a weak “who’s my daddy?” on his lips.

But she doesn’t know how to tell him, how to even begin to explain the truth – daddy can’t be daddy because he is the captain of mommy’s Musketeers, daddy can’t marry mommy because she is the queen. She can’t even begin to explain why she is a queen but he isn’t a prince, why he will never be part of her world, why people whisper about him.

So she kisses him, holds on to him, and sighs.


	37. mystery of water and a star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cs au week #1: alternative cs version. something halfway between lieutenant duckling and captain duckling, only a few months after liam’s death perhaps

The irony isn’t lost on her.

It is a peculiar thought to have with a sword in your hand while fighting for your life on the deck of a ship, yet one Emma has anyway as she braces herself against the next blow. The sea will be safer, her father had said, the forest is full of brigands these days. Yet here she is, ship taken over by pirates ready to kill her – or worse. The only comfort is that they don’t seem to know who she is and that she’s a better fighter. She may have a chance, and she may not get kidnapped and ransomed.

It isn’t much, but it might be enough.

Still, even with her skills, three deadly pirates to one tiny princess is everything but a fair fight – they have already gotten rid of the captain and are calmly making their way through the entire crew, she can only be next. Surrender is out of the question and she would rather die trying than give up now. But they are still taller and stronger, they still outnumber her even if she killed two already, and soon they manage to corner her, back pressing against the mast as one of them smirks at her with that glint in his eyes.

The one that disappears when someone starts slow clapping behind him. Princess and pirates stop in their fight, all too surprised and all looking at the newcomer. For it is a newcomer all right, leaning against the ship as he keeps clapping without even hiding his mocking grin, four more guys by his sides with swords and knifes in hands.

Emma almost wants to laugh at those morons not even noticing another crew commandeering the ship after them.

She would laugh, if she weren’t on said ship.

“Well done, mates,” he says, voice warm and deep with a laugh barely concealed. “Three of you against one of her. Truly impressive, really.”

It is only a matter of seconds until both sets of pirates jump into the battle, Emma forgotten as she leans against the mast with a sigh and watches them attempt to kill each other. There is something bestial about the fight, but even so the newcomers clearly have the advantage – both in talent and number – and she can only feel the satisfaction deep within her at her assailants being slaughtered in front of her eyes.

So engrossed into the scene in front of her eyes that she startles with a yelp of terror when a hand grab her shoulder, only to find kind eyes and a smile. “Come with me, lassie. Let’s get you out of harm’s way until the captain is done.”

There is something soft, reassuring, about the pirate’s voice and demeanour, and so she finds herself following him to the captain’s cabin without second thought – it could very well be a trap, but her adrenaline rush is dying and she finds herself shaking like a leaf and wouldn’t say no to sitting down for a minute or two.

Which she does as soon as they enter the room, collapsing in the nearer armchair with a shaky sigh. The pirate stays close to the door, hand against the pommel of his sword, fingers tightening around the metal with each scream or loud sound of a body falling down. He throws her glances once in a while, in what he must think to be some discreet fashion, but she has been the receptacle of looks and whispers all her life and those ones are not subtle at all. Not that she can complain, because she has been staring at him from the moment they entered the room – his jacket looks like the ones she has seen so many times on the backs of naval officers, only altered a bit to look less stiff and severe, and the ponytail he wears gives a softer look to the whole outfit. Obviously not something she would have pictured a pirate wearing.

The door opens with a bang, startling them both, and the man she guesses to be the captain enters in his leather-cladded glory, smears of blood on his hands and cheeks – _that_ , she has no doubt, is a look worthy of a pirate. He barely glances at her before looking away and making his way around the cabin like he _belongs_ – which, come to think about he, he does now. He stops in front of a jug of water and begins to clean himself as he looks back at the other man.

“How is she?”

It is only when the pirate glances at her once more that Emma understands she is the one he inquired about, and a snicker escapes her before she can swallow it. “ _She_ is fine, thank you.”

It may be surprise but it may as well be awe in his eyes when he looks at her, lips curling up into a grin. “The princess bites back. Always liked that in a woman.”

He shakes his hands free of water before making his way toward her, and she doesn’t know if the blush high on her cheeks is from his praising words or the way his hips sway with each step he takes. “You know who I am,” she finds herself saying, a bit uselessly.

“Well, of course, love. You just have that kind of face. Impossible to forget.” His smile is warm, reaching his eyes and doing shameful things to her lower half. “Now, would you rather pack a few things before leaving?”

She is so engrossed in his perfectly aligned teeth (so white, for a pirate) and the mischief in his eyes (blue and deep like the ocean he sails) than she barely registers his words at first and blushes even more at the grin turning into a smirk. “Excuse me?”

“Your things. Gowns, shoes, powders, all the stuff you ladies are so fond of. Would you like to fetch them before leaving?”

She blinks up at him, for surely she didn’t fight tooth and nail for her life only to be abducted by another bunch of pirates – but the captain is dead and with him the crew, and she cannot for the life of her sail a ship single-handed. So she sighs and nods before standing up. He follows her to her own cabin, leaning against the doorframe as she fetches a bag and shoves her belongings in it, trying not to feel self-conscious at the way his eyes follow her every movement.

“You know who I am,” she says as she folds her dresses to pack them. “And yet you are still a stranger to me.”

“Killian Jones, Your Highness.” He chuckles. “I’d throw a ‘at your service’ in there but, you know…”

She stops to stare at him above her shoulder, as he smiles at his own words like it is some kind of private joke he shares with himself in his head. She shakes hers and goes back to her packing, putting in her hairbrush and soaps before closing the bag in a swift movement.

She gives him a nod that he mirrors before grabbing her bag and throwing it carelessly over his shoulder. It surprises her, the good manners, but she isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth so she follows him up and then finds herself carefully walking the plank between the two ships. The pirate from earlier helps her down with a hand in hers, and she ignores the captain’s hand on her lower back to help her balance.

“Come,” he tells her. “I’ll show you your quarters.”

Her quarters, as it turns out, are his cabin, and he throws her bag on the bed before making a quick work of cleaning his desk as he reassures her he will sleep in the hull with his crew and apologizing for the lack of fresh sheets. When he looks at her again, it is with a boyish smile and a finger scratching a spot behind his ear.

She only stares with wide eyes.

“Why are you doing this? You are yet to speak of a ransom or to force yourself on me. Why are you being so… _nice_?”

She squirms under his intense gaze yet reads the hurt in them at her words. It doesn’t make sense, nothing about this situation makes any sense at all, not with a pirate acting like a gentleman whose feelings get hurt when reminded of his title. He looks away from her face with a self-deprecated smile and that nervous scratching of the ear.

“It is the right thing to do,” is the only explanation he gives her. It will have to be enough – for now. “I have to go back to the helm, but feel free to explore the ship if you want. My men won’t be a nuisance.”

Another, almost shy, smile and he is gone.

 

…

 

They estimate it to be a two week long trip back to her kingdom and not once does she hear a whisper about a ransom or reward. Perhaps it is obvious to them her parents would pay (they will) or perhaps Captain Jones just told them to shut their gobs on the subject, but Emma only faces polite men – as polite as a pirate can be, at least.

It has been a week since they rescued her, if she can allow herself to think in such terms, and life on the ship is surprisingly peaceful. Sure, the food is not that great (even if the cook is making an effort for royalty, if she is to believe the grumbling whispers) and they remain pirates, loud and crass and lacking delicacy. But she could have found worse, so much worse, so Emma counts her blessings.

The man who took care of her on that first day – the one they call Gentleman Starkey – is patient enough to teach her the rules of a cards game and it takes her only a couple of hours to empty every pocket of its golden coins. The pirates complain and the Captain shakes his head with a smile from his place at the helm and Emma laugh.

(One of them even breaks her corset for her, getting rid of the metal armature within it, so she can move freely even in her fine gowns. She feels like breathing again for the first time in years.)

It is late into the evening, stars shining bright on the deep blue sky, when she finds her way to the upper deck. Everything is quiet, pirates eating and chatting peacefully, and the Captain smiles at her when she comes near him – that smile that does funny things to her belly and warms her cheeks every damn time.

“Nice job stripping my men of their money, Emma.”

He is a gentleman, the use of her name and not her title the only reminder he is neither a naval officer nor one of her subjects.

“You can’t steal what has already been stolen, _Killian_.”

(Well, two can play this game.)

He hums happily even as he quirks an eyebrow at her reply – he has taken an habit of doing so every time her wits matches his, but Emma is certain he isn’t aware of it. She smiles.

“Will you tell me?” she asks, taking advantage of his good mood.

He sighs and tightens his hold on the helm, but doesn’t ask what she is talking about or denies her the truth – she is grateful for both, even if his easy reading of her mind is unsettling at best.

“I used to sail under the Evil Queen’s colours. Not my finest hour, which is ironic considering…” Small nod to the ship as a whole. “I come from a family of sailors, so it only made sense to follow in their footsteps at the time. My brother and I sailed together on this very same ship, until one day she gave us one particular mission. Crossing realms for a magic plant with healing properties.”

He stops in his tale then, sniffs as silently as possible and he looks away from Emma – surely to hide his eyes from her, but she doesn’t miss the storm brewing in them, the turmoil of emotions.

“We didn’t think much of it at first. Magic has its limits, after all, and surely she had hers too. And healing people is a noble cause, one that would have helped her reputation. But, as it turns out… Poison. And my brother paid the price.”

Her gasp is loud in the quiet evening, and she immediately feels bad for it because Killian turns to her once more with a sad smile as he softly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The irony, his genuinely comforting of her for a story that burdens him still.

“It wasn’t that wild a guess from there. Your mother’s ultimate demise would have come from that poison.” He shrugs, almost sheepish. “Leaving you to die on that ship just seemed wrong.”

She looks at him then – _really_ looks at him, without the pirate persona and smug behaviour to protect him. The man she finds is broken and lost, good despite the world being unfair to him. He keeps surprising her in the best of ways, with his kind words and soft touches and caring gestures. He is everything and so much more, and the revelation – the feelings settling in her chest and in her heart – takes her breath away.

She rises on the tip of her toes, presses her hand to his neck, his ‘what…?’ dying against her lips. It is tentative and timid at first, until he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her to him, other hand buried in her hair. He grins against her lips and it makes the kiss sloppy, whispering a ‘finally’ that has her chuckle too.

“I think,” she says, breathless and perfectly _wrecked_ , “it’s time for you to sleep in your cabin once again.”

He doesn’t reply.

Just grabs her by the waist and throws her over his shoulder.

She laughs and squeaks all the way down the ladder, breathless with laughter when she falls on the bed.

 

…

 

It’s well into the early hours of the morning, sun painting the sky in purples and oranges, and she lays against him in the too small bed, sore and used and _loved_. He draws patterns on her shoulder in featherlike touches and hums under his breath, some melody she has never heard before. It’s simple and nice, just sharing a bed after a night of more colourful activities – she could get used to it, all too easily.

She shifts in his embrace, folds her arms on his chest to look into his hooded eyes. He smiles and kisses her nose, finger playing with a wild strand of hair.

“Come with me. When we reach my kingdom, come with me and meet my parents.”

He does.


	38. dating

Everything around them is eerily quiet, save for the crunching sound of their footsteps on the frosty grass. Not a single bird is singing and even the wind that had been howling not ten minutes ago has now died down. It’s as if Storybrooke is holding its breath, waiting for the next cataclysm to happen. Not that Emma can blame the woodland animals for hiding – she would rather spend time away from the cold too, if she had the luxury.

The wind bites her skin ever through the multiply layers of clothes she wears, and she stopped feeling her nose a good half hour ago, red and hitching with the cold she’ll catch before tomorrow. All she can think is going back to the apartment, press her back against the heater and burn her tongue on a hot chocolate. But that, along with everything else – a warm bath, hiding behind five blankets and a good night of sleep – will have to wait until further notice.

For now, they’re busy man-hunting the Snow Queen, because that’s what her life has become.

As with everything else in life, Killian takes their little adventure in stride, good hand hidden in the pocket of his coat and eyes on the ground, scanning for patches of ices under fallen leaves. Even if she hasn’t talked him out of his pirate garb yet, he agreed to wear a scar and beanie on that one, and the look is completely ridiculous (read, endearing) on him, dark strands curling around the beanie’s hem. When he turns to look at her, it’s with a grin on his lips, nose and cheeks pink with cold and eyes sparkling – her heart does a weird little dance against her ribcage.

“Interesting, don’t you think?” he asks, breaking the silence at last, white cloud dancing in front of his mouth. His voice is low and teasing, matching the mischievous glint in his big, blue eyes. “You, me, the woods…”

Emma can’t help but laugh, which is a bad idea in itself as the cold air immediately attacks her lungs, leaving her breathless for a second or two. (Yeah, totally the cold.) Still she can’t help but roll her eyes, even as a small smile curl up her lips in remembrance of all those times spent in the woods, saving the day – and they’ve had their share of those, haven’t they? Why can’t their fairytale problems happen on a sunny beach or something?

Because it would make her job as the Savior easier, that’s why.

She walks past him, making sure to nudge his shoulder along the way. “It’s a date, then,” the words rolling on her tongue before she can swallow them back.

It scares her – how easy it is, the teasing and the flirting, how right and natural it feels with him. Just thinking about it leaves her restless, fingers and feet tickling with the need to leave, run, _flee_. She has to ground herself not to do that just now, to put one foot in front of the other in the search of Elsa – that alone is exhausting in ways she isn’t used to, the maelstrom of strong emotions draining her of her energy.

Love is supposed to be easy (and it is, with him, even if the word seems too big, too much) but it is so complicated too. Freaking out over an improvised line is proof enough that, even if she’s gone a long way, Emma still has work to do on that one.

And she wants this, whatever label they put on _this_ , to actually work.

It takes him a few seconds before catching up with her, fingers finding the crook of her elbow all to easily. (He’s tactile, she’s learnt, always with a hand on her lower back or fingers in her hair or his leg pressed to her. She usually hates that but, as with everything else, he makes it work flawlessly.)

“A _what_?”

The chuckle escapes her in a white cloud, raising a challenging eyebrow at Killian – it’s like Photoshop and phones and electricity all over again, but she remembers her first time in the Enchanted Forest, ogres and swords and _Mary Margaret talking to birds._ She knows better than to laugh at him. He’s such a fast learner anyway, there is nothing to mock there.

“A date. You know, having a drink, going to the cinema or to the park, and basically spending time together. Outside. Alone.”

She stumbles on the words, suddenly grateful the cold hides the blush high on her cheekbones, hearing how she makes a fool of herself. Henry is so much better than her at their little game of Technology for Pirates 101 – not that she’d let her eleven year-old kid teach her three-century something pirate about dating, mind you. Still, blushing and stuttering like a schoolgirl with a crush, that’s new. And embarrassing.

But Killian, true to himself, only looks confused about the ‘cinema’ part, otherwise pondering on her words with the slightest pout and tilt of the head – the one that turns him into a confused puppy and turns her into a mess of feelings. It takes a few seconds, but he ultimately gives her a nod, satisfied with that new lesson in everything land-without-magical.

It leaves her curious, obviously.

“How did it work back there? Poem writing? Tea parties?”

Emma can’t help but imagine something out of a Jane Austen book, with bonus pianoforte and walking around rooms. Which might not be so far from the truth, come to think about it – perhaps not for the piano, more like the lute or something.

“Aye, there was a bit of that,” Killian replies with a laugh of his own, low and husky. “I attended many a ball during my years in the Navy. For a royal such as yourself, it would have been suitors and balls, and then the occasional walk in the gardens with a chaperon. I must say, the idea of an evening in a tavern is a much more thrilling prospect.”

He bumps her shoulder just then, bottom lip stuck between his teeth – literally biting back the grin that threatens to appear – and she bumps it back playfully. The need to tease him about the only time they were in a tavern together is strong, but it brings back a whole different set of memories along with it, of dark cabins and heated kisses, and Emma knows better than to poke fun at this particular scene.

So instead she tries to imagine this life – the balls and the suitors and the _courting_ – that could have been hers, had the situation been different. Would she have liked it? Loved it even? Would she have felt like the outcast, uncomfortable in her tight corset and pretty dresses? So many possibilities opening up to her imagination, and yet all she can think of is a red dress and _you’re a natural_. She smiles.

“Anyway,” she says, dragging on the last syllable. “Work to do.”

She doesn’t have time to make five steps forwards, looking around her for a flash of blue fabric – they’re closer to the park and the lake by now, maybe water appealed to Elsa in some way – before he calls out her name.

She throws him a pointed look over her shoulder, to which Killian replies by a smug grin of his. “Fancy grabbing a drink tonight?”

Emma can’t help it; she laughs, loud and clear, cheek hurting with her wide smile and chuckles warming her cold body. She shakes her head – he’s an idiot, an adorable idiot pirate – before starting to walk towards the lake once more.

“Only if you’re buying!” she replies, loud enough to be heard from where he stands.

He’s quick on his feet, back at her side in an instant, hand finding her lower back all to easily and sending sparkles up her spine with a single brush of skin against jacket. (She’s a goner.)

“Well, of course.”

His voice is low, closer to her ear than expected, promising more than just a tankard of beer at the Rabbit Hole. And if she presses her lips into a thin line, if she quickens her pace, well, let’s just say she’s tired of the cold already.

(She’s _such_ a goner.)


	40. companionship

They’ve been going at it for hours.

He tries to focus on the book in his hand, one Lady Belle gave him and Henry assured was a must-read in this realm – one of magical school and little orphan and it shouldn’t hit that close to home but it _does_ –, only to be snap out of his reading every so often. A too loud gasp or too cheery laugh and he raises his head to the two women in the sitting room.

They’re a sight to behold – the queen, with her regal dress and even more regal posture, the princess, sitting cross-legged on an armchair. The smiles are easy, the laughs even more so, as they trades stories of their adventures and tales of their past. It used to hurt, Killian knows – he saw it in Emma’s eyes after each meeting with the little queen. They’re so alike, in the bad experiences as well as the good ones, that it stirs something inside her, something deep and almost forgotten.

(He can’t erase the images of her magic being out of control, the fear in her eyes and power at her fingertips. The unshed tears when she hurt her father and shivers at the thought of doing it again, over and over again. There is good in her, she would never hurt on purpose – not unlike some people he knows, himself included – but coming to terms with that was a long and painful process.)

(She sees herself in the woman sitting in front of her, and has every right to. Their friendship is one to be cherished, for not many people can understand, truly understand, what his Swan is going through. And it pleases him that the two regal women get along so well, that they can offer each other what nobody else can.)

So laughs and other gleeful little sounds it is, and Killian has the ghost of a smile on his lips even as he tries to immerse himself in the curious tale of the young Potter.

It’s ten more minutes before he gives up on the book altogether, standing up and busying himself with making tea while he listens to Emma’s story. And it’s impressive, really, how she manages to be so chipper when she speaks of their adventure up the beanstalk – the memories of metal around skin and _I can’t take a chance that I’m wrong about you_ branded into his brain. But she twists their adventure just so, and it becomes something else altogether, a tale of blossoming emotions and nascent partnership.

His smile grows bigger, fonder, at the words in her mouth, the cadence of her voice – she’s come a long way, after all – as he caries the mugs of burning tea to them, one in hand, the other two dangling almost dangerously from his hook.

Elsa accepts the tea with a smile and a nod, the china turning a pale blue as she cools it down. Even if he is used to magic by now, having seeing it up close and all, it never ceases to amaze him. So he returns her smile and puts the other two mugs on the table in front of him, before his hand finds Emma’s shoulder.

Her hand settles above his after only a few second as she presses her cheek to his forearm with an easiness that has his heart beating faster every time. But it is Elsa’s eyes that startle him, for he doesn’t miss the longing in them. Even if she told them love and marriage are not in her plans (“Anna will give us heirs, after all.”), she craves companionship, understanding – Killian wonder if those women know, how alike they are in so many ways it become rather unsettling at times.

He wonders if Anna will become more than the mother of an heir, if she will wear the crown herself, for Elsa belong somewhere else, belongs in this too little town with another blonde enchantress.

(Maybe the queen and he are more alike that Killian would like to admit, too.)


	41. date

It takes her a grand total of thirty seconds after asking him out before she freaks out.

Because, of course she does.

Emma Swan doesn’t do dates – she didn’t do relationship either, but she’s starting to rethink that one. Still, she can’t for the life of her remember the last time she went on a date with someone, and gives her cursed self the stink eye for doing it so effortlessly. (She tries to remember how she did with Walsh, because it was easy, simple, but the memories hurt and so she stops right there.)

Emma Swan doesn’t do dates.

So she buries herself in her work for the rest of the day – as a sheriff, not a Savior, because the idiot with the cockney accent is still wreaking havoc in her town and no, buddy, not under her watch. There are phone calls to answer and lists of stolen goods to write, and it keeps her busy enough that she forgets all about the date.

Until it is five and she is done for the day.

They is no postponing it at this point, not anymore, and so her feet lead her to the loft and up the stairs as she does her best not to huff and puff with each step she takes. (It was her idea. How was it her idea? This is the opposite of a good idea, what the hell, Emma?) Even so, she is careful of opening the door as softly as possible, especially when she catches a glimpse of her mother in the kitchen – alone, which can only mean the little brother is asleep.

Mary Margaret stares at her, with the wide eyes of a woman who won’t see a good night of sleep for the next ten years (been here, done that, kinda), and Emma feels awkward all of a sudden, having no idea how to broach the subject. It is new and foreign to her, this relationship of theirs, this love and fondness, and she doesn’t know what to make of it half of the time, doesn’t know how to handle not being an orphan. So her steps falter, even so slightly, as she comes near the kitchen island and clears her throat.

“I…” she starts, hands opening and closing by her sides. “I have nothing to wear.”

She wonders if she should worry about how wide her mother’s eyes are by now – not that Mary Margaret leaves her the time, mind you, as she grabs her hand and pulls her to the other side of the loft, the corner where her bedroom is. The wardrobe is opened in a flourish and, before Emma has time to really understand what is happening to her, her mother throws dress after dress on the bed as she mutters under her breath.

(And wow that’s one impressive collection, did they all appear with the curse or…?)

(Rambling. She’s totally rambling inside her own head.)

“I have just the right one,” her mother goes on from her place inside the wardrobe, “I only need to – _ah ah_!”

Okay, that is definitely not the kind of dress she wears.

Like, ever.

But there is something in Mary Margaret’s eyes, some kind of longing that reminds Emma of Neverland – _we were cheated out of everything_ – so she swallows back the words forming on her tongue and smiles instead. She tries not to overthink this moment, fails miserably. Because this – this is a mother helping a daughter getting ready for her first date, this shared complicity, this thing she never had and thought she never would have. So she bites back the words, and bites back the tears at the corner of her eyes as she raises a trembling hand to the fabric, feels its softness against her fingertips.

“It’s perfect,” she says, and the words are nothing more than a broken whisper.

“Good. _Good_. Now stop crying or your eyes will be all puffy and red, and we don’t want that.”

(Mary Margaret’s eyes are all puffy and red, but neither of them points it out.)

Last thing she knows, she is pushed to the bathroom with products to scrub and clean and perfume her skin and hair – is it awkward that your mother is doing her best for you to get laid later that evening? Yeah, it’s totally weird, but Emma isn’t going to complain as she turns on the shower and stays under the hot water longer than necessary, only getting out when she starts overthinking everything once more.

Follows a whole different ballet altogether, of towelling hair and painting nails, of picking shoes and earrings and the perfect shade of red for her lips. Emma barely dares moving for her spot on a kitchen stool – Mary Margaret looks like she’s been doing this all her life, or maybe dying to do it for a very long tme, and so Emma gladly let her for she herself is out of her depth for once. (She thinks of his eyes every time she closes hers, of his smiles and his lips on hers and – even if it was her bloody job to be pretty and flirty – the images her brain conjures are enough to unsettle her. She would probably stab herself with the eyeliner, or something.)

“You’re having the time of you life, aren’t you?” Emma asks after a while, teasingly.

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes and huffs a bit, for the sake of it, before focusing back on the eye shadow she’s applying.

“Not many occasions to dress up while you’re on the run, that’s for sure. There were some… instances later, weddings and such. But, you know, I knew you were a girl and so I had dreams…”

She remembers the nursery, remembers King Midas’ ball too – a life that could have been hers, a life that was stolen from her. Sometimes, in the dead of the night, she wonders. Wonders what it would have felt like, wonders what kind of princess she would have made. This is foreign to her, this lifestyle, this other realm, but there is a longing, at the pit of her stomach – the Enchanted Forest living deep in her bones, flowing through her veins, whispering in her ear.

“A pirate as a suitor wasn’t really in my plans, though…”

“He wasn’t always a pirate.”

Her words come as a surprise to herself, blurted out and defensive, as if daring her mother to go further down that way of thoughts, as if ‘pirate’ sounds like an insult all of a sudden.

Mary Margaret raises her hands in surrender. “Not judging.” She crunches her nose, “Well, I’m getting there.”

And, if nothing else, it’s a start.

(Mary Margaret does shed a tear when Emma is finally ready, twirling in front of her like a little girl – she tries to pretend it doesn’t affect her, but her eyes prickle too as she gives her mother a grateful hug and whispers her thanks.)

(This is new and foreign and unsettling, having a mother who cares and loves her, but it is precious too, and she loves the warmth that comes along.)

(The look on Killian’s face when she opens the door isn’t half-bad, either.)


	42. sleepless nights

Sleep doesn’t come to her that night.

She stares at the ceiling, shadows drawn by the faded light coming through the window, as she listens to Elsa’s deep breaths, hoping their cadence will sooth her somehow. But not even the young queen’s cold toes pressed against her calves manage to keep her mind from wandering far away in the past. (She needs her own place, she reflects dully, royal sleepovers stopped being fun a week ago.)

She keeps coming back to the images she saw on the tv screen, those memories she no longer has. Slowly, patiently, she lists every foster home she’s ever had, counts how long she’s been in each house, hoping to find the gap somewhere. But she can’t, wonders if her memories were only erased or replaced too – the feeling doesn’t sit well on her, not when she already has to deal with ten years of fake and confusing memories.

But mostly she thinks _what does she want_ , and glances at Elsa as if it would be written on her sleeping face. What does she want with the both of them, why are they so important? She can understand villain coming at her now, what with being the Savior. But her fifteen year old self? She was no one, literally. Nobody cared about her, she was nothing special.

What did the Snow Queen see in her?

Did she know all along?

Did someone know who she was, who she would become, and did nothing about it? How could one be so heartless?

She thinks back to their meeting in the woods, the way she’d said ‘Emma’ with such softness and – and _love_. It doesn’t make sense, nothing about what is happening makes sense, and she fights against the familiar prickle of tears in her eyes, fight against the soreness in her throat.

She’s cried too much as it is tonight, refuses to allow herself another show of weakness.

But… but that woman, whoever she is… She could have done something. She could have adopted her, could have taken her as her own until the time was right, until the day Emma was to become the Savior. She _knew_ , she knew who Emma was and she didn’t –

With a sigh escaping her lips, Emma stands up as silently as possible not to wake Elsa up, and tiptoes her way out of the room and down the stairs. Her parents and brother are fast asleep too, making her exist all the easier.

It is only in the street, wind slipping beneath her clothes and biting her skin, that Emma realises she forgot to take a jacket – and that she’s still holding her baby blanket to her chest. (She’d hope the smell of it would trigger some memories – to no avail, obviously.)

The trek to Granny’s is a short one, and she slips through the back door without a noise, knowing damn well one of the Lucas ladies will hear her anyway. Not that it matters, as she finds her way up the stairs and down the corridor, and gently knocks on the door.

He opens it after only a few moments, blinking sleep away. A sob get stuck at the back of her throat then, vision blurry with tears. She doesn’t have to speak nor glance into his eyes for Killian to pull her to him. His chest is warm as she presses her nose against his skin, and a simple whisper from him is all Emma needs for the tears to fall once more.

His arms tighten around her as he closes the door and navigates them through the room. She finds herself in his bed in a matter of seconds, head on his shoulder and clutching the baby blanket to her.

The words don’t come easily, her voice breaking with each sentence, but they come anyway. Slowly, softly, barely more than a murmur as she opens her heart to him.

(Once upon a time, it would have scared her, how much she’s come to rely on someone, the trust she puts in him. Not anymore. Now she sees it as strength, as a gift.)

“Why couldn’t she keep me?”

She regrets the words the moments they roll on her tongue. She has a mother who loves her – a mother who gives her dresses and takes pictures of her first date and follows her to another realm if she has to – and it isn’t fair, that feeling deep inside her, that longing for something she never had – could have had – maybe had, even, what does she know?

She could have had that sooner, someone who listens and understands, someone who loves her despite her magic – or maybe because of it. She could have been happy, loved, and it was all that mattered to her back then.

Killian doesn’t answer – what is there to say, after all? –, instead kisses the top of her head and rubs her back. It soothes her where Elsa’s presence failed and, along with the headache and exhaustion from crying, helps her fall asleep.

The last thing she hears is, “You are very much loved now.”

She knows he’s right.


	43. frozen heart

All she feels in anger.

White hot anger burning through her veins as her magic crawls under her skin in the most painful ways – waiting to be released, as she clenches her fists and jaw. If looks could kill, the Snow Queen would be dead already from the magnitude of Emma’s stare. She tries to breathe deeply, to even the frantic beating of her heart, but the same images come haunting her every time she closes her eyes, making it impossible for her to contain her emotions.

She wants to lash out, and it scares her – this need for revenge, for justice, blinding her until her fingers burn with magic.

“Emma, darling.” And, more than anything else, she hates this voice, calm and even, chilling in its softness – the voice of a mother, loving and caring. “Don’t be like that.”

She clenches her fists once more, relishes in the light bulb bursting not three feet away. The Snow Queen doesn’t budge thought, barely even acknowledges what happened, and it pisses Emma even more so, that control over he emotions, that coolness to her. (The unintentional puns are starting to grate on her nerves, too.)

“Elsa and I, we’re your real family. Your only family.” She adds a smile for good measure, and Emma feels like she’s going to be sick in the stomach. “Remember how I used to make grilled cheese and we would watch old movies? We could do that again.”

Now that the memories are back, Emma tries her hardest to block them – they seem as fake as the New York ones, too vibrant and too perfect to be real, too beautiful against the hardship of her childhood. She refuses to consider those memories her own, not when they cast doubt on her identity, when they leave her confused and upset at best.

“I already have a family.”

The Snow Queen’s laugh is worse than everything else, bringing a shiver down Emma’s spine. It is the kind of laugh that has your blood run cold and leaves that weird feeling at the back of your neck – a lethal sound if she’s ever heard one.

“The parents who replaced you? The son who already has a mother?” And here’s that smile again, the sweet innocent one Emma doesn’t buy for a second – it reeks of false sincerity, of misplaced love and evil plans. “You deserve better than that, duckling. You know it.”

The pet name, more than anything else, does it for Emma. Another light bulb bursts over her head as she grabs the Swan Queen by the collar, propriety thrown off the window in an instant, their faces only a few inches away. Emma reeks of anger and magic, ready to burn down the entire town, to melt this stupid queen to a puddle and be done with it.

“Don’t call me that,” she hisses in warning. “You lost that right a long time ago.”

“Right. I’d forgotten. It is _Swan_ , now.”

She says the name with another one of her chilling laughs and the hint of an accent, but it is enough for Emma to see red, enough for the magic to burst out of her fingerprints, for the Queen to hiss in pain at the burnt skin of her neck when Emma’s hand holds on tight. She remembers Zelena’s grip on Henry, and it is the same right now, the feral response of her magic when it comes to loved ones – only she doesn’t need to protect, not this time.

She needs answers, solutions.

And she will get them.

“Don’t talk about him like that.” She wanted to hiss once more but it comes out as a yell, hoarse and desperate. “Not after what you did. That’s not how family works, you sick twisted bitch.”

The empty look in his eyes haunts her still, and will follow her for a while longer. The opposite of love is indifference, they’d told her, but Emma hadn’t truly believed it until she saw his eyes – big and blue and oh so empty, emotionless as they settled on her. He hadn’t been particularly mean, had just looked at her like he wasn’t really seeing her, and that more than anything hurts like a bitch.

He doesn’t _see_ her, and her heart breaks a little more with each passing minute without him.

“It was for your own good.” And gosh, the woman has some nerve.

“ _You took him from me_!”

She hates the irony of it, hates that it took Killian being taken away from her to acknowledge the depth of her feelings, to put a word on the warmth in her belly every time he’s next to her. Hates that it took his frozen heart for Emma to listen to hers. Hates that she will never get to tell him, to show him, because someone has decided otherwise, because the Savior doesn’t get her happy ending.

“I love him, and you took him from me.”


	44. her men

She doesn’t know how long she’s been there, staring at the landscape in front of her – hundreds of little dots of light as people get ready for the night, the sea gleaming in the moonlight. It is all so quiet from up there, soothing in ways, worrying in others. The Snow Queen is still out there, as lethal as ever, the peace over Storybrooke nothing more than a decoy. But, with her eyes lost in the distance, Emma can almost convince herself that everything is fine.

(The tears blurring her vision the reason for that ‘almost’.)

Her phone buzzes on the passenger seat, and she is tempted to ignore it, to turn the device off for the night. But a glance at the screen shows Henry’s name, her stomach twisting painful at the memory, a few days ago, of the crow at their window, of his face as he’d realised what it meant. She doesn’t want to do that to him, doesn’t want him to go through the same stuff twice in so many days, so she takes a large inspiration as she grabs the phone and presses her finger to the screen.

He doesn’t give her the time to speak. “Mum! Are you okay?”

Tears pool once again in Emma’s eyes at how hurried his voice is, laced with concern and love. She remembers his pale body on a hospital bed, remembers the beeping sound of the machines.  _I failed him_ , she’d thought. It’s the same feeling today, the same self-hatred. Her boy, her beautiful boy, she let him down today. Again.

“Yeah,” she replies, more of a croak than anything. “I’m fine.”

The lie is so blatant it makes her wince – she used to be good at this, hiding her emotions, putting on a mask. But Henry is so much like her, she has no doubt he would see right through her bullshit even if her voice were convincing enough.

“Are – are you coming home?”

A sob gets stuck in her throat at the word –  _home_. If she closes her eyes, images of the loft float behind her lids, warm bed and even warmer love, the whispers of her family and hum of the fridge. Home is not a place, she knows, but this loft is everything, this little corner of the word she thought was hers.

“I…” She stops, swallows. “Not tonight, kid.” She almost wants to add she’ll spend some time at the station, working on the case and finding new leads on the Snow Queen, but too many lies have already come out of her mouth at it is. He doesn’t deserve it.

He deserves better.

“I –  _we_  worry about you, you know.” The tears fall down her cheeks freely now, and she can’t even find it in her to wipe them away. “And – wait.”

She hears him moving around, words muffled from her as he probably put his hand on the transmitter, until a door opens and closes. She knows the loft well enough to understand Henry just locked himself in the bathroom – a smile fights its way to her mouth at the thought of it, too weak to really curl up her lips.

“Okay,” he says, a little more freely now that he’s alone. “Mum, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her sigh is long and loud enough for him to hear it – she can only remember the lamppost, and her mother scolding at her like a child who misbehaved on purpose. The memory, still fresh in her mind, brings older ones with it – that of not so compliant foster families, waiting for her to screw up, waiting for the tiniest of mistakes to kick her out of their house and back into the system. Unloved, unwanted. Alone.

She tries to fight them, because her parents love her she knows, but it is easier said than done as her old insecurities – the ones she never really got ridden of – come back with a vengeance. They laugh at her naivety, laugh at her for believing she could be anything but a lost little girl in a world too big for her.

She screws her eyes shut in yet another wince.

“It’s more complicated than that.” And she doesn’t want to explain, not to Henry of all people – let him keep his ingenuous vision of the world for a little while longer, let him believe villains can be heroes but not the other way around. Let him be a child, for as long as possible.

“But…” he starts, and she hears the door opening again at the same moment. “ _Go away_ ,” he all but hisses then, and Emma’s eyebrows rise in surprise at the hostility in his voice.

Even muffled by the phone and the distance, as well as Henry’s hand back on the transmitter, she recognizes the voice and accent. She could roll her eyes at how predictable the scene happing at the loft in that moment is, but only feels selfish in taking their affections for granted, terrible in knowing they all worry about her.

But, more than everything, she feels surprised at her son’s voice and replies. If the words aren’t clear to her ear, the intentions behind them are, and she wonders exactly when her little boy grew into a teenager boy with such a fierce mind and sharp tongue. (She wonders if she has his grandfather or other mother to blame for that one.)

“Henry,” she says, and he stops bickering with Killian immediately. “Be nice.”

“But I…” Huff. “ _Okay_.”

That makes her smile, at last, the pouty voice with a whiny edge to it.

“Give Killian the phone, okay?” And, feeling he’s going to argue, “I’ll call you in the morning, I promise.”

Henry keeps talking to her for a few more moments, obviously stalling (‘love you, kid’ ‘love you too’), before the phone passes from one to the other. She swallows the sob in her throat and braces herself from the conversation to come, but still Killian needs nothing more than a “Hello, love” for the tears to fall again as she sniffs pitifully.

“I’m fine,” she says without prompting, just as convincing as she was with Henry.

And, just like Henry, he doesn’t buy it for a second, sees right through her lie – but then, did she expect anything else from her two men? Not really. There is comfort in that thought, in knowing two people in this crazy life of hers understand her, if not what she is going through. It isn’t much, especially not now, but at least it’s something.

“No, you’re not,” he replies, and she heard the sad smile in those few words – hates herself for causing pain once more that day. “But it’s all right, take your time. You’ll know where to find us when you’re ready.”

_That_  leaves her speechless. She knows her family, know they aren’t made for sitting and wait. Patience isn’t a virtue they share, the need for actions as deeply rooted in their bones as the promise they will always find each other.

They care so much, all of them – it comfort her in her idea that she is better off far away, as least until she finds a solution, until she is certain she no longer poses a threat to them. It is for their own good, after all.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, love.”

They settle in a silence only broken by their breathing, and she idly wonders if he can hear how swallow hers is, if he guessed she’s crying – probably. But it is soothing, in a way most things weren’t today, so she closes her eyes and enjoys that moment of recess, as short as it is.

And short it is, for soon more background noises come to her, and she rolls her eyes. (Makes a mental note of talking with Henry later, because she is sure there is some underlying problem there he wouldn’t dare to voice unless asked.)

“The lad wants his phone back,” Killian states, very matter-of-factly, but the annoyance in his voice is almost palpable.

Emma laughs, for what feels like the first time in a century, the chuckle broken and breathless but here. “Stop bothering my son.”

“I’ll try,” he replies with a laugh of his own, one that goes straight to her core and to her heart.

_They love me_ , she’d said.

She knows it to be true.


	45. by the docks

She finds herself by the docks, leaning on the railing as she stares into the sea at her feet. The air is crisp, the wind biting her skin – nothing like the snowstorm they went through the previous day, though, but still enough to make her shiver.

She’s too lost in her thoughts to even zip up her jacket.

Too lost and confused as she tries to come to terms with the things that happened today – to no avail, of course. Her mind jumps from one thought to another, over and over again until a headache threatens to appear. But she can’t help it, can’t turn off her brain when it is screaming so loudly, can’t –

She’s startled when she’s pulled into a hug from behind, cursing herself for her lack of attention, for not hearing him coming. For it is him alright, she recognizes the arms wrapped around her waist in a second, feels the familiar tug in her heart when he drops a kiss to her neck, his breath warm and tickling against the skin there.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither does she, just wrapped in his embrace as she stares at the sea in front of her, as she lets her mind wander some more.

“You’re avoiding me again,” he says, and it sounds like a fact, not a reproach.

He’s right, of course – she’s been at the docks for what feels like hours, leaving the celebrations once she had said goodbye to Elsa and watched the three of them go back to their land through a portal. She needed to be alone, away from everyone. Including him.

(She closes her eyes and all she sees is his lifeless body, Gold squeezing his heart in his claws. She closes her eyes and all she sees is her own hand in his chest, praying for it to work, for him to breathe. She closes her eyes and all she feels is the surge of magic within her, his gasp against her lips.)

(She closes her eyes, and she feels dizzy.)

“I…” she starts, has no idea what to say, how to say it. So she adds, “Sorry,” so lamely it makes her cringe.

He doesn’t say anything, just tightens his hold on her and – it should scare her, hell it _used_ to scare her, but not anymore. And maybe that’s the scary part, maybe that’s what she is dreading the most. She doesn’t mind, she welcomes his soothing touches and easy kisses, as if they’ve been doing it for years and not merely days, as if it is natural, simple – but it never is, and that’s the trick.

“This is it, isn’t it?”

It’s been _it_ for a while for him, she doesn’t even try to pretend otherwise but – but now it’s official, true, tangible. Now they know.

“Aye,” he replies, “it is.” And she hears the smile in his voice, hears the relief too.

He’s relieved where she is scared, and the irony isn’t lost on her. But he built his life on losing people where she built it on being rejected – always sent back, always abandoned, never loved, never enough. And now, now she has this, she has him, and she doesn’t know how to react.

Doesn’t know what to do, knowing he will never tire, never unlove, never leave. He’s here, here to stay, here for her and – it’s too much, too soon for the lost girl who finally found her home.

But he buries his face in her neck, holds her closer to his chest and – it might take time, but she knows she’ll get there.


	46. Chapter 46

Instincts are a funny thing. They keep you alive, that gut feeling deep inside you that warns you of danger or reacts for you before your brain even has time to react. Instincts are branded into your skin, carved into your bones – the need to survive, eat, fight. You can’t control them, not without reason. Instincts keep you alive.

When Emma comes back to herself, her instincts kick in.

She runs, and doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t stop when her son calls after her, when her father stops him from following her. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the town line, lungs burning and mind screaming. She wants to scream, too, but settles for glaring at the yellow line painted on the ground, for glaring at that sign she drove into a lifetime ago. She stares at the forest – her instincts tell her to hide, and she obeys.

She finds a tree and leans against it, closing her eyes to the world. The forest has never been comforting to her, but she knows better than to go near the soothing song of waves. They would find her too easily and – that’s the point. She needs the solitude. They need her to be far away from them. If they don’t find her, maybe they will stop looking. Storybrooke is bigger a town than it looks, after all. She’s safe there.

She’s safe there, sitting with her back to a tree, until she is not. The snapping of a twig startles her out of her sleep (sleep, such a strange concept) and she stands up in a second, fingers curling around the magic she no longer wants to use.

“It’s me,” comes his voice from behind a tree.

He appears a moment later, concern drawn on his features, and Emma looks away – unable to deal with this, with him, with everything. She sags back against the tree, doesn’t stop until she sits on the ground again, knees to her chest so she can wrap her arms around them and hide her face.

“Go away,” she tells him, voice muffled by her position.

It doesn’t matter if he heard of not – he elects to ignore her demand anyway, moving closer until he’s kneeling in front of her. Emma toys with the idea of disappearing in a cloud of smoke, to some other place – doing it, again and again, every time they find her, until they take the hint. Until she’s brave enough to step over the town line.

“Not a chance,” Killian replies as he moves closer still, his fingers brushing against her hair.

Emma wants to jerk away from his touch, fight back but – she’s so tired of it all, exhaustion deep within her body. She’s so tired of everything, of fighting back, of her own mind and her own story. She’s tired and scared and alone, oh so alone.

“Emma. You’re safe.”

“You’re not.”

His fingers tighten in her hair, and she raises her head, meeting his eyes for the first time. His are clouded, fear and worry and – something else, something more, but it doesn’t make sense. It stopped making sense a long time ago. She shakes her head, and he tilts his to the side, and she hates how transparent she always feels under his gaze. Open book, she thinks, bile rising in her throat.

“Go away,” she says again, voice hoarse as it breaks on the words. She closes her eyes, but not tightly enough to keep the tears at bay – they roll down her cheeks, warm against her icy skin. Her nose itches, too, but she doesn’t find the strength in herself to raise her hand and rub it.

“I won’t leave you. Not now.”

“You’ve already left.”

His eyes widen before understanding flashes through them. He offers her a smile, tight-lipped and sad, as his hand moves down her jaw to cup her cheek. His thumb draws circles on her cheek and Emma wants to scream because this – this is too much, much more than she can handle, more more than she deserves.

“Emma,” he says, so tenderly she has to look away. But he won’t let her, fingers curling around her chin so her eyes won’t live his. “Emma, you have to know. We don’t blame you. We don’t hate you. Your family, they – we are worried about you. Don’t close yourself off, not to them. Not to me.”

She shakes her eyes, the tears spilling away once more, blurring her vision until she only sees colours and shapes. She tries to swallow down the sobs, but her entire body is shivering now, and something akin to a wail of pain escapes her lips before she can even think of repressing it.

She has no idea if she falls into his arms or if he pulls her to him, but next her nose is pressed to his collarbone, her fingers grasping the fabric of his jacket at his back. She cries, loudly, uncontrollably, and lets Killian rock her in soft motions. He sings to her ear, his voice deep and soothing, the lyrics unknown to her. It matters not, when she closes her eyes to the world and focuses on him only, hand warm as it draws circles on her neck.

Emma forces the dark thoughts away – you don’t deserve this, you don’t deserve him. You don’t deserve anything at all, Dark One. You are not worthy of love, not anymore, not ever. He made it loud and clear.

It’s that last thought that has her pushing him away, eyes wide as they take in his face. She doesn’t dare hoping, doesn’t find comfort in the feelings she finds in his eyes. He loved her. Past tense. He loved her, and he doesn’t anymore, and nothing makes sense. Nothing ever makes sense.

“Emma?”

“You said – on the Jolly, you said –”

She can’t say it out loud. She can’t hear it, lest it makes it even truer than it already is. She can’t hear it, can’t accept it, and Pan’s evil laugh rings to her ears – once a lost girl, he whispers to her eyes, and Emma wants to claw at her own face.

“Emma, no.” His hook is under her chin, forcing her to look at him while he wipes the tears away with his good hand – one cheek, then the other, before he kisses her forehead, lips lingering for long seconds. When he looks back at her, his smile is still sad, but also caring, fond. “I love you.” She shakes her head, he goes on. “ _I love you_. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

“You said –”

His lips are on hers, the soft whisper of his mouth as he says the words, brands them into her body. Those lips of his travelling up her jaw and to her ear, mouthing the words, again and again. She shivers, fear and hope scrawling up her spine as she tightens her hold on him, refuses to let go.

“I love you, Swan. _You_.”

Her instincts want to believe.


	47. yes/no

Emma moves in with Ingrid in October, which – it isn’t strictly speaking the best moment of the year to start in a new school. All the groups are already formed, tons of private jokes everywhere, and it’s a good thing Emma isn’t the social kind anyway because it allows her to sit in the last row and just fade into the background. She’s used to it, of course, the result of being shipped off to this or that foster home all her life but. It kinda sucks, sometimes.

It sucks even more when their English teacher announces that their new big project will be in pairs. Emma scans the room, quickly, and swallows down a groan when she counts an even number of students. Not escaping the torture, great.

She is bracing herself for the worst when a piece of paper falls on her notebook, and Emma grabs it in an instant. It’s folded neatly and, when she opens it, there is something written in an equally neat handwriting. She squints her eyes at the “Wanna be my partner? Yes/no” she reads, and squints a little more when she looks up at the boy sitting in front of her. He’s turned around, arm over the back of his chair and curious look in his blue eyes. His hair is back in a ridiculous ponytail, like he tried to go for the Kurt Cobain look and then regretted it, and – it’s kinda pitiful, but Emma likes it somehow.

She grabs her pen, circles the ‘yes’ and then adds below ‘what’s your name?’ with a dotted line for him to write his answer. She folds the paper back and taps on his shoulder, and he beams at her before he even reads her reply. Which he does, and looks back to her with another grin – he smiles too much, it’s suspicious.

“Killian,” he says.

She nods.

She’s the new girl, everybody knows her name already.

 

…

 

Emma hates maths.

She truly, really, does hate maths.

It’s not her fault, all things considered – she’s good in English, and history, and even sports since Ingrid insisted she joins the lacrosse team. Basically she’s good with words, and dates, but other numbers are just lost on her. So she spends her maths classes drawing doodles in her margins, which doesn’t really help with the ‘I’m bad at maths’ thing but – it’s just boring, and she can’t focus on anything because she _doesn’t understand anything_.

Plus, Ruby invited her to a party next week – the first time she’s invited to a party since she moved in with Ingrid five months ago, so. She’s too distracted today to focus on maths, really. Nobody can blame her for it when the school’s most popular girl took an interest in her. Nobody ever cares enough about Emma to invite her to things, and she would be suspicious about it, if Ruby wasn’t so nice all the time.

She’s wondering if she needs to buy new pyjamas bottoms or if she can go to the slumber party (slumber party! with other girls! who want her here!) wearing the pyjama pants she already owns. They’re black with yellow Snitches on them, Ingrid’s gift for her birthday, and she loves them but she’s afraid it’s a bit too nerdy. Basically Emma doesn’t know how to be sociable, so she’s kinda a mess right now. And it’s kinda an understatement.

Which, obviously, is when a note falls in front of her, startling her out of her thoughts. She glares at Killian, out of habit more than anything at this point. He does love to give her notes in class, like the eleven-year-old schoolgirl he’s never been, because apparently he decided to adopt her after their English project together, and. Emma never had friends before. She wasn’t going to say no, no matter how annoying this one can be at times.

His neat, annoying handwriting welcomes her when Emma opens the note, and it takes all she has not to react to the words. A loud ‘fuck’ or, more accurately, a pathetic squeaking yelp, wouldn’t help at all, knowing her teacher doesn’t like her very much as it is.

‘Granny’s tonight at 8pm? Yes/no’

The pathetic squeaking yelp seems appropriate, really. Just as appropriate as her heart now racing, beating a loud staccato against her ribcage. Emma blinks, twice, but the words remain the same, blue ink on paper. She forces herself to breathe slowing, inhaling through the nose and exhaling through the mouth, not to have a panic attack. It already happened, once when she was six and kicked out of a foster home for something she didn’t do, and she would very much like it not to happen again. Especially not in front of an audience.

‘is it a date?!’ she scribbles, and crumples the note before she throws it Killian’s way. He catches it before it even falls on his desk, and opens it quickly – obviously excited, and his face falls a little at her question, which is all the answer she needs. Oh god. This can’t be happening.

But it’s her life, so of course it’s happening, and of course Killian leans closer over the space between their tables to whisper to her. Well, fake whisper. He still struggles with understanding that his voice carries, especially when he goes for discretion.

“Are you serious?”

She real-whispers back, “Are you for real?”

His eyes widen, and he looks away like he can’t actually believe her and needs a moment. She knows the feeling, because she can’t actually believe this is happening – if she pinches herself, maybe she’ll wake up, or something.

“Just answer the bloody question, Swan,” he says, upset.

“What is wrong with you?”

“ _What is_ – what is wrong with _you_?”

It would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy their argument. Arguing is better than flirting, after all – arguing with Killian she can handle, since their friendship is built on them never agreeing on anything anyway. It’s familiar, easy. Easier than your one and only friend apparently having a crush on you, or at least being interested enough to ask you out. Yeah, Emma will take arguing over that any day.

“You can’t just _write a note_ and _give it to me and_ –”

“Jones! Swan!” The teacher startles them both. “Principal’s office, now.”

Emma’s mouth opens in surprise, but she closes it again and mumbles some lame excuse their maths teacher doesn’t want to hear. She just keeps pointing to the door, furious, so Emma gathers her things and shoves them into her backpack before she leaves the room, with Killian right behind her.

They’re both silent on their way to the Principal’s office, mostly because Emma is freaking out – this is it, isn’t it? This is all the excuse Ingrid needs to thrown Emma back into the system, no second thought, no question asked. Just get rid of the difficult kid who gets sent to the Principal’s office and never has good grades in maths. She should have been more careful. Should have worked harder.

“You didn’t answer.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

 

…

 

She sticks the note to his locker before first period, knowing fully well he won’t see it until lunch break – he never goes to his locker before lunch break, for reasons unknown. Especially since he always takes all his stuff home with him, just in case he decides to work on this or that paper on a whim. Killian is weird that way.

And, obviously, everything goes according to plan. Emma sits at their lunch table outside with Ruby, Elsa and Merida, chatting about their plans for the weekend – Elsa’s fingers in her hair, braiding it as she always does when Emma’s hair isn’t up into a ponytail. They’re wondering which movie they want to watch on their girls’ night, mostly because Storybrooke’s theatre doesn’t leave that many options, when Killian storms toward them.

Her note is crumpled in his closed fist, and Emma smiles innocently at him.

“Are you okay?” she asks, voice falsely concerned even as her lips tug up into a smirk. She’s a terrible liar, all things considered, for someone skilled at spotting lies.

“What is wrong with you?” he counter-attacks, raising his first to point the note at her.

He doesn’t shove it at her face per se, but he still angrily throws it in her lap, before storming away. Emma watches him go, and Ruby whistles softly – which, yeah, Emma understands the feeling. She also understands Elsa’s snort of giggle and Merida’s eye-roll, because Killian’s behaviour is just old news at that point. Ruby says they never got over their belligerent sexual tension, even if they’ve been dating for almost a year and a half, and Ruby may have a point.

Which reminds Emma, note.

She opens it, and the grin blossoms on her lips when she sees what is written. There is her ‘PROM? yes/no’ of course, only the ‘yes’ has been circled at least ten times, underlined a dozen times too, and even highlighted in neon yellow. Just in case.

“I have a date for prom!”

“Obviously,” Merida mumbles, so it doesn’t sound as much as ‘obviously’ as… some weird Scottish noise, really. Emma’s grin still grows bitter.

 

…

 

Emma’s first reflex when she enters her apartment, before she even switches on the lights, is to kick off her heels. A groan of relief escapes her as her feet settle on the cold floor of her living room, and she lets her messenger bag fall next to the shoes from hell. Let it be known that she loves her job, she truly does, but she could also go on in life without the dress code. The art of being a lawyer, Ruby always says with a smirk – but Ruby also bought her grandmother’s diner when she retired and spends her days in flats, so she isn’t one to judge.

Emma is on the way to the fridge, her stomach groaning almost painfully in its emptiness, when she notices something on the kitchen counter. She frowns, a little – she isn’t exactly a neat freak, but she’s a freak for details and so knows that whatever it is, it wasn’t there when she left this morning.

She approaches the thing slowly, suspiciously, just in case – not that she believes the thing to be dangerous, but instincts are a funny thing and Emma’s wariness is carved into her bones at this point.

But, well, it’s a little box, grey and simple, and next to it is something Emma hasn’t seen in a very long time – hell, something she never thought she would see again, once they got out of college. She rolls her eyes playfully as she grabs the note first, and unfolds it slowly. A gasp escapes her lips when she reads the words.

‘Move in with me? yes/yes’

Emma bites down on her lip not to laugh but – yeah, okay, maybe she’s keeping the tears at bay too, even if she would never admit it out loud. Still, just to be sure, she opens the box too and there it is, one single key lying inside the box. The hysterical giggle does escape her lips, happily bubbling out of her before she can stop it.

“Way to be romantic, Jones!” she says loudly.

She knows her boyfriend well enough to know he wouldn’t have planned this without hiding somewhere, and so isn’t even surprised when his laugh rings behind her, or when he wraps his arms around her waist. Killian’s mouth is hot against her neck when he kisses her there, his beard scrapping against her sensitive skin. It brings a shiver down her spine, and she leans against his chest, closing her eyes.

“You didn’t answer,” he whispers to her ear, all smug bravado and annoying smirk.

She kicks his shin, just because, then turns around to face him. Her arms are around his neck when she kisses him, and she whispers the ‘yes’ against his mouth.


	48. kiss on the collarbone

She noses the hollow of his throat, pressing just hard enough that she can feel him swallowing, that she can feel his heart racing against her skin. He’s warm all over, draping his coat around her to shield her from the wind, tightening his hold around her waist to pull her closer and share his body heat. It’s been a long day and even longer night, working on the castle’s reparation until the sky turned a bleak grey.

Shades of purples and pinks seem to welcome the sun now, everything quiet and peaceful, and Emma would enjoy it more if it weren’t for the soreness in her arms and exhaustion in her bones. Killian is as equally tired, of course, even if he hides it well – which makes his desire to watch the sunset together all the more unreasonable, knowing he is five minutes away from passing out too.

But he is at peace for the first time in a very long while, and Emma is getting there too. It helps, rebuilding the castle that could have once been hers, the castle that saw her parents being in love, her parents loving her. She still doesn’t know if she wants to live there when it will be liveable – Killian talks of realms to see, places to visit, and she would lie in saying it does not tempt her – but at least it helps, for now.

“Come on, love,” he whispers to her ears, hand rubbing her arm. “Just a little while longer.”

“Too tired,” she mumbles back, and noses at his neck once more.

But she also kisses his collarbone, right where his skin disappears under the fabric of his shirt, and Killian hums appreciatively. At always, it sounds more like a purr drawn from the back of his throat than anything else, and Emma smiles before she kisses him again and is rewarded with the same little sound.

It turns into a deep chuckle as Killian drapes the coat more carefully around her shoulders, and Emma doesn’t even try to watch the sunset – instead, she leans her head on his chest, falls asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat. She doesn’t even wake up when he carries her back to their bedroom, but he kisses her cheek and she smiles.


	49. kiss on the hips

He told her once, when he didn’t know any better, that he liked more enjoyable activities than sword fighting with a woman on her back. A simple jab to get a reaction from her, of course, and never would he have thought that, months later, he would actually witness Emma sprawled over his bed, wearing nothing but her necklace and a sinful smirk.

She is a wonder of a goddess and Killian finds himself speechless in front of her, throat dry and heart swollen – she’s beautiful and perfect and  _his_ , a concept still so foreign he is afraid of even thinking about it too much. That woman who went to hell and back for him, quite literally, now wetting her lips and shifting her hips, smiling like she will never stop. He loves her so much he’s terrified, and his fingers shiver even so slightly as he grabs her ankles, raises her leg so he can kiss her calf.

She gasps, the sound as lovely as she is, and so Killian continues, kisses traveling up her leg until he reaches her knee. Her pupils are blown up by now, black swallowing the green, and a flush spreads from her cheeks, all the way down to her breasts.

Her head falls back against the pillows when he bites down on her thigh, tongue darting out to sooth the skin before he moves up, up, where she needs him most – the proof of her desire glistening at the apex of her thighs, so tempting Killian has to look away from it. He will take his time with her, will leave her wanting and breathless until she begs for more, until his name fall from those delicious lips of hers in a whine.

So he kisses the jut of her hip, then a little further up, and grins at her frustrated groan. Grins even more when she grabs his hair and pulls, jolt of pain turning into pleasure at the back of his throat. He raises his head just enough to see her glowering at him, stunning even in her frustration.

“Patience is a virtue,” he singsongs.

“Less pillaging, more plundering,” she replies flippantly.

He laughs, chuckle against her skin before he kisses her hip once more – with a scrap of teeth that startles her, and she laughs too, that rare giggle of hers she saves for him. He kisses her hip again, then her stomach, the space between her breasts, her collarbone. She’s ready and panting when he reaches her lips, her hands grabbing him from behind to push him flush against her. He groans, and chuckles too.

“Pirate,” he accuses when she flips them over.

She only grins.


	50. gentle pecks

Lazy mornings are her favourite, sun streaming softly through the curtains, turning the bedroom into golden and pink hues, everything warm and easy. Emma has never been one to stay in bed until the decadent hours of the afternoon, but Storybrooke is quiet these days and Killian is warm by her back, and the bed so, so comfortable. She learns to love lazy mornings, when everything stands still for a few hours, only the sound of seagulls in the distance and Henry moving around in his room.

Killian looks so young and peaceful in sleep, like the decades and heartbreaks and the Underworld are nothing but a foreign memory, like his own thoughts are not weighting him down anymore. Emma never would have believed herself to be the kind of girlfriend who lovingly stares at her significant other while he’s sleeping, but she wouldn’t have believed herself to be girlfriend material, period, and there are many things she learns about herself these days.

Like how she loves to press her cold toes to Killian’s calves in the middle of the night, or the way he breathes into her neck when they’re cuddling, or the way his eyes are clouded when he wakes up, disoriented and soft and warm all over. But, mostly, she loves how his arm is always solid around her waist – it took her some time to get used to it, but now she relishes in the strength of it, and how he refuses to let go even in the deepest of sleeps. Like he can’t get enough of her, like he’s afraid she will slip away from him (again).

He mumbles in his sleep, words in a language she doesn’t know nor understand, and Emma can only lean in his embrace, lips brushing against his in the softest of kisses. He mumbles once more, her name this time, pulling her closer to him even if he doesn’t wake up. Her heart is too big for her chest as she smiles, beaming and carefree, and kisses him – the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his nose.

Several little kisses that make him smile in his sleep, until she feels him rousing in her arms, until he blinks up at her with clouds and love in his eyes. He smiles, lopsided and drowsy, and Emma can only beam back at him.

“Bad form to wake up a man, Swan,” he mutters, voice low and throaty.

A shiver runs down her spine even as she kisses him, sound peck on his lips. “Payback for keeping me awake all night,” she replies with a giggle, and he grins – at her words, or her laugh, or both.

When she kisses him once more, he kisses her back, and Emma definitely is a fan of lazy mornings in bed.


	51. kisses on the neck

Killian realises he is out of his depth the moment her fingers wrap around his chin, nails digging into the sensible skin hard enough to draw a hiss from the back of his throat. He keeps his eyes open even with the jolt of pain, though, refusing to be the one to break eye contact. Hers are green and cold, unforgiving in their fury – a lesser man would feel threatened for his own life, but Killian never feared death anyway.

Even now, when she could snap her fingers for guards to take care of him – when she could snap her fingers to kill him on the spot, if the legends are to be believed – Killian doesn’t fear for his own demise. He should, probably, but he is too fascinated by the princess standing in front of him, holding him still with one hand while she points a dagger to his throat with the other.

He curses his own body for choosing that moment to come to life, because – really? But he can’t deny the effects she has on him, can’t deny he wouldn’t mind her having his way with him, quick and dirty and so unlike the princess they raised her to be.

“Who are you?” she asks, cold, unforgiving.

He rolls his eyes, smirks. “I do love to make an impression, _love_.”

She loses her composure, if only for a moment, confusion flashing through her beautiful eyes as she takes him all in before she stares at the scar on his cheek. She blinks, once, twice, looking more like the lass he met when he was but a wee boy than the indifferent princess she pretends to be. There is humanity in her gaze – loss, fear, heartbreak – and for a moment Killian doubts himself, doubts his presence here.

But then she says, “Killian?” with so much vulnerability in her voice he can only smile back.

He smiles, and grins, beaming at her as he replies, “Did you miss–” As he _tries_ to reply, cut off by a slap that makes his cheek sting. He works his jaw with a chuckle and then goes for a, “Some things never truly–”

But she has apparently decided not to let him talk, not that he minds when she kisses him so fervently he takes a step back from the strength of her assault. She grabs the lapel of his jacket, tugs on his hair, and he is clearly and most definitely done – kissing back with as much heat, tilting his head so he can deepen the kiss with a press of his tongue against her lips.

He loses himself in the moment, in her, for longer than should be appropriate – body coming to life, blood boiling in his veins, with every moan at the back of her throat, every mewl falling out of her lips. He gives as good as he gets, pushing her until her hips collide with the hard wood of her dressing table, pots and brushes and little things falling to the ground as he hauls her up so she sits on the table.

Only then does she break away from the kiss. “You asshole,” she hisses, even as she attacks his neck with her lips and teeth and tongue. She sucks long enough that it will definitely leave a bruise, and Killian only grins at the idea of being branded – yes, let the world know, let them all know the pirate belongs to the princess.

And branding him she does, for he wakes up with a trail of little bruises on his neck, as well as a particularly glorious one on his hip, and one on his thigh he doesn’t even remember her making. But, mostly, he wakes up with his head on her breast and her arms around him, and never wants to part ways with her ever again.

“Don’t leave,” she tells him, sleep in her voice.

Never again.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M-rated carefree, silly smut

Emma comes home to the smell of warm blueberry pie, sweet and mouth-watery, making her smile as she takes her shoes off and shrugs off her coat. It’s cold outside, winter definitely (and finally!) coming to greet them, so she’s relieved to finally be inside and no longer at the wind’s mercy. She paddles her way to the kitchen to find Killian doing the dishes, and so she wraps her arms around his waist, presses her frozen nose to the nap of his neck. He shivers a little but doesn’t pushes her away, and so she tightens her hold on him, kisses his shoulder.

“What’s up, Martha Stewart?”

He chuckles at the reference he doesn’t understand, low and deep, and she can picture the roll of his eyes without having to look at him. He finishes washing the bowl before he wipes his hand on the towel, Emma still hugging him, before he turns around in her embrace – one arm wraps around her waist too, while his hand settles on her neck as he kisses her, soft and easy. She grins into the kiss, and bites down on his bottom lip a little, grinning even more when a low groan escapes him.

“And a good afternoon to you too,” he smirks against her mouth.

Her hands must still be cold from outside, because he hisses when she slides them beneath his shirt, stomach flexing under her fingers. He deepens the kiss though, moving around the kitchen until he has her pressed between the fridge and him, hips already rolling against hers – just enough to create some friction with her jeans, but not to keep her satisfied for long.

“Someone’s eager,” she tease when his mouth finds her neck.

Killian chuckles once more, teeth scrapping her sensitive skin just enough to startle her. “It’s all that food,” he replies. “Made me hungry.”

“Oh, smooth,” she laughs, only for the sound to turn into a shriek when he pulls away just enough to grab her by the waist and, in one swift motion, throw her above his shoulder. She sees stars for a second or two, blood rushing to her head – she can’t stop laughing though, even as she kicks him a little. That is, until he reaches the stairs, because she isn’t crazy enough to tempt fate and make them both fall.

And then he’s dropping her on the bed, and Emma bounces off the mattress a little. Her cheeks are still red, but with the laughter that’s still spilling out of her mouth even as she sits on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her arms and looking up at him through her lashes. She likes it best that way – when he’s grinning even with eyes blackened by lust, dimples in his cheeks and sinful tongue on his bottom lip. She likes him best that way – happy and carefree, teasing, fun.

So she says, “Dance for me, Captain,” both her eyebrows raising in challenge.

Killian laughs – one of his rare laughs instead of the low chuckles he always offers – and does indeed rolls his hips from one side to the other as his fingers deftly unbuckle his belt. It’s quite silly, watching him sway to no music, but sometimes Emma needs a little silly in her life. When there is no monster in town, no evil witch to defeat, no one dying, she allows herself some silliness, allows herself to be happy. Life is made of moments, and those are the ones she wants to remember.

She snaps her fingers after a few seconds, clothes disappearing. Killian looks down and smirks, only for his smile to turn into something even more sinful when his eyes slowly take her in – she has never been one to feel self-conscious about her body, but the heaviness of his gaze was disconcerting at first. So much love, lust, hunger – like he can’t believe she is real and here, and _his_. Sometimes, she hardly believes he’s hers, too.

“Interesting,” is his only comments before he pushes her back against the mattress, settles between her legs.

Their kiss is hungrier, her hands groping his ass – his damn, _perfect_ ass – to pull him closer, closer still. He’s the one to roll them over, and then her hands slide to his chest, grinning down at him – let it be known that Captain Hook loves it with his woman on top, not that Emma minds in the least.

His own hand slides up her body, teasing just enough to be ticklish – she startles when his fingers brush against her side, back arching. It must give him quite the view, especially when his hand wrap around her breast, thumb drawing circles around her erected nipple.

“How do you call it, already?” he asks.

It takes a few seconds, having to clear her mind a little, before Emma understand what he means. She snorts, the sound ugly. “Afternoon delight.”

“ _Ah_. Yes.” And then he’s sitting up, kissing her. “You’re quite delightful indeed.”

She shakes her head, rolls her eyes. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He does.


	53. Chapter 53

“This is my favourite part,” Hades exclaims, cheerful.

His laugh is cold, hollow, and it brings a shiver down Emma’s spine as she forces herself not to move. She does tighten her hold on Killian's hand though, his fight squeezing back in silent support. He doesn't feel real, exactly, more smoke than body, so Emma keeps her chin up and accepts Hades’ cruel games.

The God holds a hand up, ticking off his fingers as he goes. “No touching, no speaking, no communicating of any sort,” he lists with an amused smile, like someone told him Christmas came early this year. “No walking next to him, no walking behind him. You stay in front of him, silent, and he follows, silent. The moment I feel you cheating, he comes back. Is that clear, my dear?”

“Yes,” Emma replies through gritted teeth.

Hades grins, feral and dangerous, and holds his hand up for her to shake. Emma does so reluctantly, the memories of past deals fleeting through her mind as her fingers wraps around the God’s wrist. His skin is pale and cold, half-dead himself, and Emma forces herself not to shiver a second time. He would feel the tremor in her hand, and she can’t afford such a weakness.

Not that it matters much, when next he claps a hand on Killian’s shoulders and exclaims, “See you in a bit.”

The confidence in his tone makes her cringe. He can’t even see a version of this scenario where Emma doesn’t fail, and that fuel her determination and her stubbornness a little more – if it even is possible, when you’ve been running on _I need to save Killian_ for what feels like weeks. Saving Killian is her priority but damn if rubbing it in the God of Smugness’ face isn’t going to be the cherry on the top.

“I’ll send you a letter,” Killian replies with a tight-lipped smile.

Emma forces herself not to snort, even more so at Hades’ dramatic eye roll. She squeezes Killian’s fingers, and he squeezes back, briefly. The both of them startle when, with one swift motion of his wrist, Hades opens the wall next to them. It groans and creaks until all Emma can see is a tunnel, long and dark despite the torches on the walls. She can’t even see the light at the end of it, metaphorical or otherwise.

“And off you go!” Hades says, before off he goes in a cloud of black smoke, leaving them alone in the antechamber of the Underworld. Emma sighs and squares her shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut when she feels Killian’s fingers slipping away from hers. She has to force herself not to look back, not to grab his hand again and never let go, because she knows the game has already started and she can’t lose this one. _She can’t lose_.

“Off we go,” she echoes in a whisper and a sigh.

The first steps are easy – confident, determined. The faster she walks, the faster they get out of there and back to Storybrooke, her parents and Henry long since gone from the Underworld by now. She can only picture herself at Granny’s, with a mug of hot cocoa between her palms and Killian’s arm around her shoulders, with Henry’s grin and her mother cooing at her brother. She can hear their laughs, and the way they chat away, can hear Granny teasing some patron or another, can almost feel the warmth of the diner against her cheeks, aching from smiling too much.

She thinks “Yes, this is my happy ending,” and pictures a house.

Her foot trips on a rock.

Emma finds her balance before she even has the chance to really fall, and perhaps she imagines the rustle of fabric behind her as Killian moves to grab her. He’s been awfully silent since they started walking, and she can’t hear his breathing next to hers, so Emma knows she might only imagine it. She forces herself not to check, and instead sighs loudly, raising her hands in the air as to show she is alright. Nothing to worry about.

She shakes her head, but the image doesn’t go away. Of course, she wants that, the white fence and the porch where to have breakfast, the master bedroom and no longer sharing a room with Henry, no longer being woken up at 3am by her brother. She wants lazy mornings and quiet evenings, wants Sundays spent doing nothing and homework before dinner, wants it all and so much more – wants the domesticity, wants to finally _finally_ have it all.

But Emma thinks of the house – the one they picked for her, the one she got for them – and all she can remember is the hatred in Killian’s eyes when dark magic started coursing through his veins, the angry smirk twisting his lips, the words out of his mouth that she will never truly be able to erase from her memory.

Those words, she heard them a thousand times before, thrown in her face by abusive foster parents and angry would-be lovers. Those words, she took them like a slap to the face until it stopped hurting, until it became nothing but the truth, nothing but the norm. Emma, the orphan. Emma, who can’t be loved. Emma, who’s such a stuck-up asshole she can’t love in return and locked herself up in her own tower, so high and so well-guarded nobody could climb the walls.

But it’s different, coming from him. It’s different because she never would have expected him to hold that against her – not when he was so patient with her in the first place, not when he let he set the pace of their relationship, not when he was so _understanding_. Was he lying all along? Was he hiding it so well she never noticed?

Was it just the darkness talking?

Emma doesn’t know anymore – doesn’t want to know, because when she thinks of that she also thinks of Killian believing she doesn’t want a future with him. The set of his jaw as he had clenched his teeth and looked away, his expression the perfect definition of _disappointed but not surprised_. Like he was expecting her to reject him at some point, and what does that say about her? What does that say about _him_?

Emma stops of her own accord this time, chin dropping to her chest as she sighs deeply. It doesn’t keep the tears at bay, but she does a good job of pretending they’re not rolling down her cheeks to die on the corners of her mouth, hot and salty. When she takes a deep breath, it’s ragged and difficult, but she forces herself to walk again anyway. Forces her feet to move, one before the other, over and over again until she only focuses on the ache in her heels, on the miles travelled.

This wasn’t Killian talking, she tells herself, and she doesn’t know if it’s a fact or the tiniest crumb of hope. She can’t allow herself to fall down the rabbit’s hole again, not now and not ever, even if Wonderland seems like a far better place than the one she is wandering right now. Eat me – your heart will grow ten times bigger. Drink me – your insecurities will grow ten times smaller.

His lips were warm and soft, if a little hurried, when she tried to true love kiss him when she took her first bite of darkness. It is his mouth on hers Emma tries to focus on as she keeps moving forward, and how she will be able to kiss him again soon enough. Perhaps he will kiss her better and everything else will go away.

She has to believe that, if nothing else.

She has to believe _her_ Killian, the one who looked at a broken woman and saw someone worthy of his affections, the one she fell in love with in the middle of a fairy tale jungle – she has to believe this Killian will come back to her, now that the darkness is gone. She has to believe he will understand, her love, her sacrifice, her everything.

Understand, and accept her the way she is.

Orphan, walls, insecurities, the whole package.

She squares her shoulders, chin high, eyes determined. He loves you, she reminds herself. He loves you for who you are, and nothing will ever change that, especially not you. It’s strangely effective, once she has told herself that a dozen times – a hundred, a thousand, and how much longer will it be until they see the light of day?

Fuck, she’s tired of this place, and she just wants to get the hell out of there.

Pun. Fucking. Intended.

As if someone heard her thoughts (and perhaps they did, she won’t discard that idea so easily), the darkness around them is slowly but certainly less dark, and soon she finds herself squinting at the flicker of light in front of her, until it grows bigger and bigger. There is no denying the light at the end of the tunnel by now, and Emma’s legs find a new vigour as she walks faster, her stride longer, she smiles bigger. She almost but not quite smiles in relief when the sun’s rays hit her face for the first time in weeks.

Her relief is short-lived, though.

“Please, tell me you’re still here,” she says loudly, finding herself unable to turn around and check for herself. She doesn’t know what she will do, if she only finds empty air where Killian’s body should be.

He doesn’t reply, and her breath catches in her throat, released in a sobbing chuckle when instead he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her to his chest. He’s warm and solid and _alive_ , his nose pressed to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, and Emma chokes on another sob as she wraps an arm around his neck, fingers of her other hand tangling with his.

“You hesitated,” he whispers.

There is no judgement nor blame in his voice, as he says the words like a simple fact that Emma can’t deny. That she won’t deny, because there is no point in it, because he saw her stop and perhaps even guessed her tears – heard them, or simply saw her shoulder shaking with fear and doubt.

“I did,” she replies, a fact of her own.

“It’s alright, love.” He presses a kiss to her neck, warm and tingling. “I broke your trust, and I will work on gaining it again.”

She turns in his embrace, her fingers trembling when she raises a hand to cup his cheek. Her thumb brushes against his lips as they curve into a tentative smile before kissing her finger. She smiles too, but it’s weak, uncertain.

“I have some working of my own,” she replies.

He doesn’t deny it, not when they’re both thinking about the field of middlemist flowers, not when his voice, begging for death, still rings inside her skull. Yes, they will need to talk and work things through, before they can go back to the way they were, to before – before the darkness, before Camelot, before everything.

Perhaps there is no going back, only moving forward.

But Emma is ready to work on that, too.

“I love you,” she whispers before kissing him.

His soft, delicate, “And I, you,” is pressed to her mouth before he deepens the kiss.


	54. Chapter 54

She remembers how Mary Margaret used to play with her ring, spinning it around her finger with nervous motions, back stiff and mind hurting. It didn’t make much sense back then, how important this ring seemed to be to her – a few months later, a few revelations down the road, Emma now understands. The ring is more than a ring, it’s a past and a future, a promise, proof of things untold and unseen.

Emma has never longed for that kind of feeling. There was no jealousy in her eyes when she saw how fulfilled and happy her roommate’s life (gosh, her mother’s life) was with David. Emma never felt like she needed someone by her side to feel complete. She never felt like she needed someone by her side, period – Henry was more than enough, and even he had to work his way into her heart, to force his presence into her life.

And it’s not even about – well. She doesn’t know what it’s about, really. It just makes sense now, the way it never did with Neal or Walsh. The way it could have made sense with Graham, maybe, in another life. It’s Killian and it makes sense, and she’s scared and happy and she feels like running away but also laughing, crying, jumping. It’s a weird mixture of feelings, the kind she can’t put a word on but… Well, there is no but.

There is no but, or what if, or reasons not to. There is no doubt or fear. (No, that’s a lie, there are lots of fears. There always will be, with her, it’s just the way she was built.)

She’s playing with her ring now, and the irony makes her smile. Smile only, because it’s still early, everyone asleep, everything quiet. She smiles because she can’t laugh, and even then – it would just be chuckling at herself, really. A little mocking and a lot like rolling her eyes at her own antics.

“What was it again?” Henry’s voice startles her as he comes next to her on the deck of the house, watching the sun rising. “The writing was on the dessert?”

She snorts. “It definitely wasn’t this time.”

Henry has a soft smile on his lips when he bumps her shoulder with his, leaning against her for longer than is necessary. He’s taller than her now, almost a grown man, ready to become a knight. So far away is the little boy who knocked on her door in the middle of the night and turned her world upside down – so far yet still there, a hero in the making, a hopeful little boy.

“You okay about this?” he asks, knowing.

“Are _you_?”

His smile turns into a grin, his leaning into a hug. Of course he’s find, her perfect selfless boy – he’s more than fine, if his mother gets her happy ending. And she is too, for the first time in her life, at peace, happy. It’s an unknown feeling, one that will take some getting used to. And she isn’t naïve, she doesn’t believe those few days of quiet will last long but – well, it’s all about the moments, isn’t it?

And Emma thinks about Killian, still sleeping in their bedroom. She thinks about his crazy morning hair, and his arms around her waist when she cooks breakfast. She thinks about lunch at Granny’s and hours at the sheriff station, playdates with Roland, quiet evenings at the loft. She thinks about all of this until a content smile curls up her lips.

“I am. I really am.”

And, for the first time, she means it.


	55. Chapter 55

The first time, it is an accident.

The Jolly is their sanctuary – away from her mother’s comments and the town’s prying eyes, from Leroy’s boisterous voice and Granny’s gossip. The Jolly is perfect to learn each other in news ways, ways that matter; with touches and smiles and kisses, with whispers branded into Killian’s neck and secrets shared under the candlelight. It feels like their own little cocoon of peace and happiness, and Emma wouldn’t have it any other way. She loves it, taking time in their relationship for the first time since Neverland; like she is discovering his under a different light, softer, more gentle and careful, loving.

She’s kissing him, lips trailing down his neck and fingers working on the buttons of his shirt – he sighs, hand in her hair – when footsteps echo above them. They both freeze, sharing a knowing look and a sigh, before Belle’s voice rings in the silence, calling after Killian.

He sighs once more, eyes closing as his head hits the wall behind him. A giggle escapes Emma’s mouth, and it puts a smile on Killian’s lips as he pushes her off his lap before straightening his clothes. With one final look at her behind his shoulder, along with a wink, he climbs up the ladder and disappears from her sight.

Emma falls back down against the mattress, closing her eyes. Her skin still buzzes where Killian touched her, and she fails to repress a smile – true, unaltered happiness, she never would have thought she could have known that one day. The sensation is still foreign, and she is afraid that it will go away – that it will be taken away from her, as with everything else in life.

“Emma!” Killian calls after her.

She sighs. Well, it was good as long as it lasted.

She stands up and grabs her shirt, slipping it on as she climbs up the stairs. Belle’s face is pale and her eyes frantic, and Emma wonders when exactly they will be able to go on with their lives without looking above their shoulder every five minutes. Never, perhaps, knowing their luck – or, rather, lack of.

It is only when she walks toward her father’s cruiser by the town line, and with the way he tells her “Interesting outfit today,” voice purposefully flat, that Emma takes the time to look down at her own clothes. Or, really, at Killian’s clothes, his dark shirt hanging off her shoulders – she didn’t even bother buttoning it over her white tank top, thinking it was her own plaid shirt and not questioning the different fabric or the wrong size.

Killian smirks at her, smug, hunger in his eyes. She pushes him away, hand on his chest, which only makes him laugh out loud. The sound warms her from the inside down and she thinks that, yeah, they can do that – together, they can find a way to navigate their relationship, even with villains and monsters.

“Shut up,” she tells him without heat.

He only laughs louder.

 

…

 

The second time, it is comfort.

Her nights have been plagued with nightmares for a week now – darkness and blood and black magic, fear crawling down her skin when she wakes up in a startle, scared and unable to go back to sleep. She tries to ignore it at first, to suck it up and live with it. It works as well as you’d think, until one night when she finds herself face to face with Henry – her in the kitchen to drink a glass of cold water, him sneaking inside the house. (And oh, how her boy has grown up).

Henry tells her that maybe Archie could help. It helped with him, when he was forced into therapy for fantasies that turned out to be reality – just talking helped, and maybe she needs that too. Maybe she needs to vent to someone who isn’t related to her, someone who will give her advice, professional advice.

Emma hesitates, throat closing, but she is tired. She is exhausted, and after one more night staring at the ceiling, she makes an appointment with Archie, and then spends the next few hours biting her nails. She hasn’t done that in ages, now remembers Ingrid’s exasperate sighs at the bad habit. Tears pools in her eyes, and she doesn’t think twice before grabbing Killian’s jacket when she leaves the house.

It’s too big for her – his shoulders are larger than hers, and the sleeves hide half of her hands, fingers wrapping around the soft leather. Anyone looking at her would know it isn’t her jacket, but Emma doesn’t care because it’s warm and comforting, because it smells like him and calms her frail nerves.

She grabs the collar and presses it against her face, hiding behind the heavy fabric. She takes a deep breath, lets his perfume wrap around her. Even when she sits on Archie’s couch, even when she starts explaining what has been plaguing her mind for a while now, she never lets go of the jacket, playing with the hem, with the zip.

It’s like Killian is here with her, and it’s helping too.

 

…

 

The third time, it is on purpose.

They’re moving most of Killian’s things into the house – finally, it was long overdue. Killian unloads the boxes from the bug while Emma puts everything where it belongs – mostly in the wardrobe, the whole ‘his and hers’ thing makes her giddy and lightheaded. She takes care of the shirts, putting them all on their own hanger, when she notices the coat at the bottom of the box.

The coat.

The black, heavy one, in all its pirate glory – Killian hasn’t worn it in months, not since their first date and his efforts to fit in with everyone else. Sometimes she misses his old outfit; the leather pants did wonder to certain parts of his anatomy, not that she let herself really appreciate it back then. It was part of him, a part he decided to leave behind to find his place in Storybrooke.

She wore his black shirt once, the one that reveals way too much cleavage – she wore it to explore the Jolly, legs bare and eye curious as she opened each and every door, discovered the brig, the little corners and nooks where he hides his treasures. He’d taken her on his desk that day, shirt still on and thigh marked by his fingers.

Melancholy takes over and she grabs the coat, takes it out of the box. It is heavy, even more so than she expected, and so warm she wonders how he even survived, wearing it in the middle of summer. By sheer stubbornness and the will to keep his swagger on, she thinks and snickers as she checks herself in the mirror. The bottoms of the coat brushes against her ankles, and she pops the collar with a smirk, raises an eyebrow for the sake of it.

A low chuckles startles her, and Emma turns around to find Killian in the doorframe – his grin is wide, flashing his teeth and his dimples at her.

“Enjoying yourself, love?” he asks, low and teasing, as he makes his way toward her – hips swaying with each step he takes, Emma’s eye traveling down as her mouth opens a little, tongue against her teeth. He moves closer until he’s standing next to her, and then he grabs the collar of her (his) coat to pull her closer. Her breasts brush against his chest, his arm warps around her waist, and she smirks too, teasing and playful.

“It suits me, don’t you think?”

Killian hums happily, nose nudging her cheek before he kisses her jaw. She gives him better access to her neck and he obliges immediately, kissing and biting and most likely leaving a mark. (Her foundation mostly goes into hiding hickeys, these days.)

“Told you you’d make a good pirate,” he replies. “But methinks the lady would look better without the coat. Actually, without nothing at all.”

The giggle escapes her, but she happily obliges too.


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahahahah angst amirite?

“I’m dying, okay! I’m dying!”

Emma didn’t mean to snap or yell – she’s never been one for the dramatics, especially not when fighting, but Killian has been pushing her buttons once again. The argument is old already, they’ve had it a thousand time since the dirigible crashed in the forest and flashes of her future invaded her mind. Her ‘I’m fine’ is always met with a raised eyebrow and, as much as she appreciates that he worries about him, he should understand that she doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s been keeping things from her in the past too, it’s not such a hard concept for him to grab.

(And look where it always led them…)

Killian stops arguing straight away, mouth opened in stunned silence as he tries to process the truth bomb she all but threw at his face. His lips move but nothing comes out, before his mouth snaps close and a muscle in his jaw twitches. He looks away from her, just for a second, swaying on the spot with the force of her (low) blow.

“Excuse me?” he asks, demands, as if he understood wrong, as if she didn’t say exactly what she just said. There must be a mistake. A confusion.

“I’m dying,” she says again, the strength no longer able to carry her voice. The fight escapes her even as she wraps her fingers into a fist to hide how they’re trembling, even when she bites down on the inside of her cheek until the copper taste of blood in on her mouth. She wants to yell, to break something. She wants to cry, also, perhaps.

“Explain.”

And it’s so strange, how glimpses of Hook can come back when she expects it the least – that darkness in him that has nothing to do with a dagger, that rage scarring his soul no matter how much he mended it. It will always be in him, dangerous and demanding, a threat in the making – always against villain. Today aimed at her.

“The curse of the Saviors,” she starts, hands on her hips and deliberately avoiding his eyes. “Hyde told me all about it. The more you give, the more it takes from you. Every happy ending restored, every life saved. Again and again until it has sucked all the magic from me, all the – things that make me, me. And then, just like Aladdin…”

Just like Aladdin you lose the will to fight back, until the only thing left is a body too weak to carry itself, until you leave behind your True Love and everything you stood for. Until you give up on try, on fighting, until it takes you whole and only remains the ghost of you.

“No.” Emma startles at the sound of his voice, eyes widening at the confidence in his. He takes a step closer, hand cupping her cheek as he angles her face toward him. And then, he repeats, “No. We’ve come too far for you to give up now.”

“There’s no point…”

“Says the woman who went to _hell_ to bring me back to life?”

“That was different, that was –”

“This is no difference, you just–”

“ _I’m tired!_ ” She leaves him speechless for the second time in so many minutes, and sighs. “I’m tired of it, Killian. Of saving everyone, of only being the Savior to them, and nothing else. I’m tired of watching them all get their happy endings when I’m stuck making sure nobody’s dying, or cursed, or worse. I’m so fucking _tired_ , you have no idea.”

He stares at her for long seconds, a storm in his eyes, before he presses his lips to her. There is nothing romantic about this kiss, just one more angry argument in a sea of them. She blinks at him when he steps away, just far enough that he can press his forehead to hers – he shivers against her, just slightly enough that she notices. That’s when a single, salty tear comes to die at the corner on her mouth, and Emma does her best to swallow down the others.

“You will not die. I refuse. I refuse to see Henry become an orphan when there are already so many of them in our story. You will not die, do you hear me? We’re both too stubborn to let it happen.”

Her giggle is water, and a little forced. “Curses don’t work that way.”

“Curses can be broken. I don’t care. You will not die.”

And, grabbing his jacket to pull him closer, fingers trembling against the leather, she almost believes him. Almost.


	57. Chapter 57

Here is the thing: Emma loves to start fights in taverns.

All she needs is the right amount of alcohol, the right band of pirates looking for a golden coin or two, a deck of cards, and just a tiny bit of magic. And some more alcohol. And perhaps a waitress or a lady of the night to distract the men just long enough to steal some of their money, until they catch up to what is happening to them.

If she plays her hand right, and Emma usually does, she can even convince them into thinking one of them is the cheater, and that she is just an innocent victim of the rascal’s greed. But some nights, Emma simply wants to play – she hides her smirks behind her cards, magic at the tip of her fingers when she turns a nine into an ace, a spade into a diamond.

Morpheus sits by her side, back to the table as he leans against her with a book in his hand, unimpressed look on his face but amused smile on his lips when she slips a few coins in the pocket of his coat. Roland sits by her other side, seemingly uninterested in the game but keeping a hand on the handle of his sword, ready to jump into action. He likes to complain about Emma’s antics, but she knows that he enjoys it as much as she does – not a lot of opportunities to fight these days, what with the kingdom being at peace.

Morpheus offers her a perfectly dramatic yawn at some point, fingers delicately pressed to his opened mouth, and Emma can only reply with a side-glance and a smirk. But his message, as sarcastic as it is, doesn’t fall on deaf ears. She has been stalling tonight, enjoying the cheerful mood after too many a boring night at the castle and not wanting to go home quite yet.

All it takes is another round of ales, and a snap of her fingers under the table, for her hand to suddenly turn good and the pirates to find themselves with terrible cards. It is a proof of their drunkest state that it takes them forty-seven long second – Morpheus counting each one of them in a whisper, first amused then incredulous – to notice something went wrong.

Thankfully, it takes them less time to jump to their feet and point greasy, fat fingers at her with a yelp of “Witch!” on their ugly mouths. (Yes, she has never heard than one before…) And it takes even less time for Roland to come to her rescue, rapier in hand as he pushes her behind him. One of the pirates, apparently a dramatic chap, grabs a bottle and smashes it on the table, ready to use it as a makeshift weapon. It doesn’t take more for the fight to break, drunk men not needing that much of an excuse for a good old brawl, after all.

Emma is grinning, even more so when any man trying to come her way only finds himself facing a very skilled, very loyal Roland. Some are smart and step away. Some think themselves better than Mist Haven’s first swordsman and taste the metal of his sword, right in their fat bellies. Just enough to draw blood and have them running away like the squeaking pigs they are, not enough to truly harm. As it turns out, pirates can be cowards when facing worthy opponents.

Morpheus links his arm with hers, and brushes away some dirt on her dress, tutting softly as he shakes his head. A long time ago, his mother had tried to put him through fighting lessons, if only because he needed to know how to defend himself, as the heir of Lord Maurice’s house. But the boy has proven himself a terrible fighter, too quiet and peaceful to accept Sir Lancelot’s tutelage. It had taken a few months, and too many fruitless attempts, before the boy was deemed a lost cause and allowed to run back to the library, where he belonged. As it turns out, he is a far better companion to Emma than he is a protector, with his witty remarks and his habit to act like her suitor when pompous nobles try to have a go at her during balls.

He is counting Roland’s victims – twenty-one by now, and the night is still young – when cold metal bites into Emma’s throat. She startles, just enough for the skin to break and warm blood to trickle down her throat, and feels her friend tensing by her side.

“Now, now,” a warm accent whispers in her ear, “We wouldn’t want such a pretty lass to get hurt.”

“Pirates,” she replies, wincing at the burning sensation in her throat. “Always thinking yourself the cleverest in the room.”

The man laughs, his breath warm against her neck. Too cocky, too confident, he doesn’t notice Emma grabbing the sword Morpheus keeps by his side for decorum – and for emergencies. The metal is still singing when she turns around and pushes the pirate away, just enough to point her rapier at his liver – a flick of the wrist and her sword would go through his leather coat like a knife through warm butter. He looks down, visibly impressed, before smirking at her.

“Did you really think you could win against the heir of Mist Haven?”

He shrugs, hands raising in a theatrical way. That is when she notices the hook where his hand should have been, gleaming silver in the candlelight. _Hook_ , she thinks, and is not even surprised. Only a man such as Hook would be reckless enough to have a go at her – reckless, or stupid, or perhaps a little bit of both.

“It was worth a try,” he replies. “I wanted to see if the rumours were true.”

“What rumours?” she humours him. Roland is still fighting at her back, and Morpheus is now leaning against her, one arm on her shoulder, watching attentively. Finally something worthy of his interest, it would seem.

“Better warlady than your lady mother. Finer swordsman than your father.” And then, with a wink, “Far prettier than both of them, too.”

“Swordswoman,” she corrects, just to be pedantic.

That is when Roland shows up by her side, panting, his sword dripping crimson on the floor. It takes him barely a moment to evaluate the situation before he steps in front of Emma, his hand lingering above her sword where it remains unmoved, pointed at the pirate.

“Do you want me to kill him for you, Your Highness?” Roland asks her, even if they both know he doesn’t need to. She could have killed the man already, and so could he. It is because Emma wants Hook alive that his corpse hasn’t collapsed on the floor yet.

“Nah,” she replies with a shrug of her own. “This one is too stupid to die yet.”

The pirate’s smirk is as sarcastic as any of Morpheus’ smiles, and he offers her a mocking bow. “Your Highness is too kind,” he tells her.

There is something in his eyes when he stands straight, something akin to respect and interest, and perhaps even lust. Emma tries to ignore it, but her own body betrays her, tongue darting out to wet her upper lip. The pirate doesn’t miss it, eyes following the motion and grin turning feral, like she just offered him a challenge he all too happily accepted.

 

…

 

Two days later, he finds himself in her room, her dagger at his throat and her body pressed to his back. She grabs his hair, pulling until his head falls back and a hiss of pain escapes his lips. She should call for her guards, she knows. They would barrel through her door and kill the pirate before he even has time to realise what is happening to him. Perhaps Roland would be the one to do it, finally, after being told otherwise at the tavern.

“You really are a stupid one, are you?”

He smirks. “You don’t seem to mind all that much.”

Truth be told, she does not.


	58. Chapter 58

He has seen her cursed before – he remembers the look of distrust in her eyes, and how she would stare at him and see nothing more than a stranger. A crazy stranger with inexplicable tales and promises of answers, but a stranger nonetheless. It had made him miss her glares in the Enchanted Forest, or even the way she would pretend not to stare in Neverland. He would have taken her disgust, or even her repressed feelings, over her blank stares any day.

But now – now she is cursed, and radiant. There is a softness to her that he has only ever seen when they are alone, when she is comforting him or he is whispering sweet nothing to her ear. She is soft, and poise, and so beautiful that it takes his breath away and crush his heart all at once. This is what she was supposed to be, who she was supposed to become – this elegant queen in her cloak of white furs, this wonderful woman who wears a tiara with pride and a smile that would sooth even the most troubled of minds.

He approaches her during the ball celebrating her son’s knighting – the lad now a man, a soldier, a leader in the making. Killian doesn’t need much more to know Henry would be good at this too, the saving and the rescuing and the defending. He takes that from Emma’s side of his family, even if Killian likes to think there is a tiny bit of Milah’s adventurous side in him, too.

Everybody is dancing and celebrating, chatting and laughing, and Killian steals two cups of bubbly wine before he approaches her. She turns to him before he even has time to introduce himself, and Killian would be pleased with the appreciative look she offers him, eyes moving up and down his body with interest, if it didn’t come with curiosity at meeting a complete stranger. He is a stranger to her, nothing more than a new face and a pretty outfit, and Killian forces himself not to wince.

Even now, he would trade it again her Enchanted Forest glares.

“Your Highness,” he offers with a slight bow, before he hands her one of the cups. “People are giving you many a flattery, but methinks the lady is in need of a drink.”

Her grin is all white teeth and double dimples in her cheeks, so carefree and so easily offered that it catches Killian off guard. She wears her emotions on her sleeve, neither afraid nor weakened by such displays – so far from his wary Swan, his proud Saviour. Here, she doesn’t think feelings are dangerous. Powerful, maybe, but not something you can use again her – not something that hurt her so deeply it left scars that she will never truly forget.

“My saviour,” she singsongs, the barest trace of irony in her voice, as she takes the drink from him before taking a sip. He tries not to stare at the expense of her neck when she swallows, and fails miserably. “I don’t think we had the pleasure of being introduce, sir…?”

“Jones,” he replies. With his fake hand, he takes her, raises it to his lips. Propriety would want him not to touch her skin, but he is a pirate at heart and drops the softer of kisses on her hand, watches her blush prettily at his boldness. “Killian Jones, Your Highness.”

She offers him a bow of her own, her smile widening even so slightly. He loves her so much and she has no idea – no idea who he is, who she is, what they have been through together. No idea he is about to ruin it all for her, ruin all of this perfect life she was always supposed to live, this life that is nothing but a lie. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to take everything away from her, doesn’t want to see her beautiful eyes once again clouded with worry and responsibilities and the dread of her upcoming death.

But he knows Emma – he knows his Swan, and so he knows that she wouldn’t want this for herself. That, if given the choice, she would want her memories back. Even if it comes with pain, heartbreak, despair. Even if it comes with things he wants her to forget, never to have lived. But he doesn’t have a choice.

So he asks for a dance, and hopes she will not hate him for what he is about to do.


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Emma is trying really hard to hide the fact that she is injured but Killian notices because let's be real, his "my swan is in danger" sense was probably off the charts

Everyone has a weakness, a tell.

No matter how small, it’s always there, hiding in a dominant hand or a repetitive motion, and one just needs to be attentive to their enemy to find that weakness. And to exploit it. Killian’s weakness is obvious now, gleaming where his hand once was. For that, he learnt to be careful of his enemies even more – they only need a glance to know where to strike, and so he trained himself to best them at this game. He always knows when, where, how to strike for it to be effective, damaging – he always can tell.

Emma was easy to find out – the way she squares her shoulders before every blow, physically preparing herself for a fight over and over again. She lacks finesse, not that it is new to him -  rough around the edges and fighting like an angry teenage boy who doesn’t know when to stop before hurting herself. The kind of things you learn in the street, when you become more feral dog than child and you turn your nails into claws, your teeth into fangs.

Thankfully, their enemies have always been too dim-witted to exploit Emma’s weaknesses. Well, that one weakness. They’ve tried going after her family so many times it becomes almost predictable after a while, but villains have never been known for their cunning plans. Killian knows a thing or two about that.

So, really, it’s no surprise Killian notices right away something is wrong with his Swan. It takes only a glance to her familiar body, and how she moves around Granny’s, for him to spot the way she favours her left arm for once, and it throws her off-balance. She has a cut on her cheek, which might turn into a scar matching his own if they don’t tend to it shortly, and her hair smells like burnt pork. He has seen her in worse condition – that thought alone is worrying – but still he would very like her to just sit for a moment and eat something, before she passes out from exhaustion.

But that would be hoping too much of Emma, who will not rest until everybody is safe and sound, until she has personally checked on each and every one of them. She starts with her son, to the surprise of nobody in the room, raising her left hand to his face so she can heal the nasty wound on his temple. It was Henry’s first official fight, and he held his own beautifully even if someone managed to offer him a nice blow to the head. Killian is proud of the lad, and smiles at him before he puts a hand on Emma’s lower back.

“Love, are you alright?” he asks, low enough that only she can hear his words.

She glares at him. “I’m fine,” she whispers between clenched teeth, before she focuses back on patching up her son. But she’s still only using the one hand, instead of both as she usually does, and Killian wonders how long it will take until the other notice. They are not as knowledgeable as him when it comes to Emma but, still, it all seems rather obvious.

“Swan,” he warns her, her name turning into a growl in his mouth.

She only glares once more, before she orders him to go and fetch more water, then focuses on her mother. Killian knows better than to argue back and start a scene – it would only make things worse instead of helping – and so goes to the kitchen to grab a couple of bottles.

It’s another hour or so before they finishing tending to their wounded and before things calm down after the storm. Granny is cooking more pancakes and bacon than they’ll be able to eat, and Killian finally forces Emma away from everybody else. He’s careful to grab her left arm even as he pulls her to the back of the diner.

She follows with a pout and a scold, the kind that makes her look more like a moody lass and less like the mighty Saviour, but still she doesn’t fight him and follow dutifully until the door closes behind them.

“Strip off,” he tells her with little ceremony, nodding at her leather jacket.

She goes for a saucy grin, the kind that usually succeeds at making him forget about a great many things, but her lips twitch with pain and her voice isn’t quite convincing enough when she tells him, “Oh my, public indecency, captain?”

He’s the one glaring this time. “Take of the jacket, Emma.”

She raises her chin up in defiance, never one to back down from anything – then again, girl with fangs and claws – before she strips off her jacket. The left sleeve first, and then the right one with the kind of wince she can’t swallow down, a hiss of pain in the back of her throat.

“Bloody hell, Swan,” is all Killian finds to say as he rushes to help her out of the piece of clothing, almost ripping it off her body with his hook in his hast. He is careful at the last moment, for she wouldn’t forgive him if he ruined her precious armour.

What welcomes him is a patch of burnt, red skin, from wrist to elbow – blood caking on her skin and fabric clinging to the wound. It looks ugly, even to Killian who has seen his lot of cannons firing back the way they weren’t supposed to.

He clenches his jaw, even more so when Emma goes on with one more, “I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not,” he snaps, anger and worry on his tongue.

That seems to do the trick, for Emma looks at him with sadness in her eyes – an apology she is too proud to give dancing in the green of her eyes. She doesn’t make a fuss when he drags her to the small bathroom, her teeth sinking in the leather on his shoulder to muffle a scream when he delicately starts cleaning her wound. It takes times, his fingers working as slowly and methodically as possible, before her skin is no longer bloody and on the verge of infection.

Only then does Emma brush her other hand above her own arm, white little blinding Killian a little before her skin turns pink and healthy again. They both know she could have done that without him tending to her wound; they both know that she wants him to take care of her, even if she would never admit it.

“You’re one stubborn lass, you know that?”

She snorts a little, but it sounds exhausted and she leans a little too heavily against his chest. “’s why you l’ve me,” she tells him.

She is asleep before he even has time to wrap his arms around her, and he rolls his eyes before carrying her out of the bathroom. Granny won’t mind if they take one of her rooms – they will pay in the morning is the woman makes a fuss – so Killian kicks open one of the doors so he can put his Swan in a bed. She is snoring softly, passed out to the world, and he wonders how exactly he managed to find himself the most stubborn, infuriating woman in all the realms.

His stubborn, infuriating woman, but still.


End file.
